


Heal All Wounds

by adotham (Bates)



Category: American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Christianity, Eliza saves the day, F/M, Fluff, Grief, M/M, Polyamory, Pregnancy, illness (in the prologue and a bit of the first chapter), mentions of scars, positivity, self doubt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-04
Updated: 2016-05-26
Packaged: 2018-05-24 17:43:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 33,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6161396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bates/pseuds/adotham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><div class="center">
  <p><br/><i>"I heal all wounds but those love hath made."</i><br/>- Inscription on an envelope to Eliza Hamilton from her husband Alexander.</p>
</div><br/>John Laurens didn’t die. The word that the war was over reached the British troops in time and the battle never happened.<p>History reimagined; the tale of a founding father with his lovers by his side. Tragedies happen, affairs arise. Politics is still a battle ground and people get hurt. The only difference is that Alexander Hamilton has someone to ground him there at all times.</p><p>The story of Alexander Hamilton and his family through laughter and tears, through happiness and grief. From cradle to eventual death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prologue  
> In sickness and health

_“How big this love is._

_How terrifying._

_The weight of all these oceans,_

_roaring inside of me,_

_commanded by those hands._

_Just yours._

_How you touch me,_

_and oh, how I burn with it.”_

[**— AZRA.T., “GOD’S HANDS"** ](http://5000letters.tumblr.com/post/106561902602/how-big-this-love-is-how-terrifying-the-weight)

 

 

Alexander Hamilton’s mind wasn’t supplying him with the words he needed to write down. Ever since he was fourteen and wrote the letter to his father which allowed him a way to America, he'd been writing, working letters. The vocabulary stored in his mind had grown and grown and grown until some days, it felt like there was too much. Yet today, all words failed him. Each word felt wrong and he couldn't pinpoint why it was happening.

Here he was, staring at the page in front of him filled with more splotches of ink and crossed out sentences. It felt like he'd been working for hours and hours, even if he knew it was only a few of them. Alexander had watched from his window and seen the sun decent in the sky, far enough for him to light a candle so he could continue to work.

He’d written this letter so often. Draft after draft had been scratched and pushed to the side. Alexander didn't know what to do with that. He _prided_  himself in his ability to write, he had always been aware his words could get him out of every situation and _into_  the situations he wanted to be in.

Every situation except when John was sick, it seemed. He’d chosen so many different words, but each time he had read them out loud and they felt wrong. He kept scratching out words and ruining pages. 

As the day progressed, his cheek was progressively more ink-stained and the stack of wasted papers had grown taller and taller. Eliza had had their dinner brought upstairs to his study so he would eat. She'd sat with him in silence and just watched him until he had finished, so she was sure he'd eat it all. 

“John so much has happened in the past few months and I’m scared.” He ran the words again. _How overdone and stuck up could he sound?_ It wasn’t right. “No, it’s not it.” Alexander wished that he didn’t have to scratch them out, but he did so anyway. “John…” He let his quill hover above the page. _This wasn’t working at all._

It was the exact moment his wife decided to knock on the study door. He looked up as it creaked open and she entered. Each time, it took him by surprise how different Eliza looked now, how much more she seemed to glow. The pregnancy was weighing on her, but if anything, she looked gorgeous. It still took his breath away each time he saw her.

“Is everything okay, Eliza?” There was a small smile on her lips as she looked at him, a note of affection in those beautiful eyes. Alexander was still amazed at how much he loved her. Eliza had changed him in a way, helped him settle down a little bit. She had helped him accept parts of his personality he’d been struggling with. Like John and their relationship. Without Eliza, he didn’t know how it had all ended.

“No, everything is alright, don’t worry.” She’d walked up to him while he was lost in thought. Her laying one of her hands on his shoulder pulled him back to the present. “It’s getting late, Alexander. Are you coming to bed soon?”

The wood of his chair dug into his back. He hadn’t realized how much he’d leaned into her touch, how comforted he felt by even the slightest reassurance. “I wish I could. I need to finish this letter first.” He looked at her over her shoulders, at the dark circles ringing her eyes. “You can go already, you need the sleep.”

“Are you writing to John again?” she asked. “Is he still ill?” One of her hands was resting on the swell of her belly, something Alexander had noticed her doing more often these days. He’d asked her why she did it, even if he perhaps knew. It was stressing her back and ribs, carrying their child. Alexander just nodded before lifting up his quill again. He really ought to finish his letter, tell John how much he wants him to be better and how he’s missed him the past few weeks. “Tell him I hope he’ll feel better soon. You should go see him. Maybe it would help cheer him up.” Her hand was still on his shoulder; she squeezed it lightly. Alexander quite honestly didn’t know what he had done to deserve her.

“I can’t,” Alexander sighed, rubbing his free hand over his face. He wished that he could, but he would never forgive himself if he’d miss the birth of their child. “It would be cutting this very close.”

“I won’t hold it against you,” Eliza sighed, running her fingers over his shoulder. They went up and down, up and down. “I know you love him as much as you love me.” Alexander couldn’t be sure, but he thought the small smile was still on her lips. “Being away when he’s ill must hurt you. If you want to go, go.”

He threaded his fingers through hers. He didn’t think that what they had going on between them could get a lot more comfortable than this. This wouldn’t never stop being _them._ Or at least, he hoped that. He would miss this if it went away.

“Martha is taking good care of him,” he pressed. “John’s a strong guy, he will be fine.” Alexander didn’t know who he was reassuring; his wife, himself or perhaps the both of them. If Eliza noticed that his smile wasn’t quite heartfelt, she didn’t comment on it and he was thankful. “Do you want me to help you to bed, love?”

He’d noticed just how much harder walking around had gotten for her, how much she struggled going up the stairs these days. Just a few days earlier, he’d come back from a morning walk and had seen her heave herself out of her rocking chair outside. It was almost _hurt_ to see his wife under so much stress, even if he knew it was quite certainly a good thing.

“If you’re sure.” Her hand had moved from his shoulder to the back of his chair resting on it lightly. “I’m not helpless, Alex.”

“I know, but you struggle up the stairs when Angelica or Peggy isn’t here to help you out.” Alexander turned in his chair, to face her. “Please, let me help you.”

She was beautiful, even when she was barely lit by the candle. Eliza may be tired and worn, but pregnancy suited her. He’s always thought so, but especially now, now _he_ was sleep deprived and tired, now he couldn't think straight.

Alexander sometimes wished that instead of a writer, he was a painter. Instead of being skilled with the quill, he wished he knew how to work paints. Eliza would make a stunning portrait. Maybe, possibly, he’d commission one for her these days, as a present.

“Alright, thank you.” Alexander rested his hand at the base of her spine, thumb gently turning circles in the fabric. She’d been complaining about her back the last couple of weeks and God if there was anything he _wished_ he could do to help. He was no Angelica nor did he have magic hands. He had tried his hardest, but Eliza had just grimaced and said that it was fine. _Perhaps his hands weren’t made for the gentleness it required._

“The child is kicking,” she said, a small smile on her lips. Eliza moved her hand over his, took his free one and put it on the swell of her belly. The child shifted under his fingertips. He could only imagine it was a hand or perhaps toes pushing against the womb. “Do you feel it?”

“Yes.” Alexander couldn’t help but grin as he crouched down. “Hello, daughter or son. I think your mother would greatly appreciate it if you could leave her to sleep. No tiny feet kicking her bladder or ribs. How do you feel about that, little one?”

Eliza laughed, warm and comforting. “He just kicked, I think that’s a no.”

“He?”

“A feeling,” she added, “a little Alexander.”

“Let us just hope that, whatever the baby is, they’ll grant you some sleep tonight. Come on love, off to bed.”

“I hope so too. Grant _both of us_ some sleep tonight. Thank you again.”

“For you, always.” Alexander couldn’t help but smile as he closed the door behind them.

 

 

 

Alexander started cleaning up his desk hours later when the sun had already begun to rise. Finally, the letter was done; there were no more scratched out sentences, no more doubt, nothing was overdone. His fingers were heavily stained with ink and he was sure his cheeks would be sporting marks of his nightly writing battle, but it was a prize he was willing to pay.

Alexander had promised Eliza he would come to bed soon, but that was hours ago now. He hoped she hadn’t waited up for him. If she had, Alexander didn’t know if he would stop feeling guilty about it in the next couple of months.

“I’m sorry, Eliza,” he murmured under his breath before blowing out the candle. “I promise I’m coming now.”

 

 

He woke up what felt like minutes after falling asleep. The sun was shining through the curtains relentlessly, taking away all illusions it wasn't morning yet. For a moment, he’d thought it had been just him who’d woken up, but then Eliza had turned around on the bed and looked at him. Like she was doing now, with a small smile on her lips.

“You were talking in your sleep again.” _Oh Lord, no, not again_. His tongue was a traitor when it came to this. Whenever he was sleepy or sleeping, whenever he was drunk the words left his mouth without passing through his usual filter. Not that he had much of one, but it still counted.

In a way, Alexander had spilled his guts to his wife while drunk, in a very similar mind state as he had been in his sleep. If Alexander hadn’t, he would have never admitted to the feelings he had for his best friend. He would have never told her about what both Laurens and he felt yet never gave in on.

Neither of them had allowed themselves to indulge or give in after their one night, when he and John had locked eyes for the very first time and gotten, admittedly, very drunk. It had been nothing but kisses and hands combing through hair, but both parties had known it was nothing they could allow.  _Until that night_. Until Alexander had gotten sleepy and a bit tipsy and he’d told her that while he really loved her, he perhaps loved John too.

Perhaps, the fact they'd never gone further than that first night was why she was so calm about it at first. Because Alexander had only dreamt about kissing those lips and combing his fingers through the mess of curls. He had never had the pleasure of slipping fingers down the buttons of John's shirt and popping them one by one, sliding the fabric off his shoulders and indulge; let his mouth explore the skin.

“Nothing disastrous I hope?” he asked, bringing his mind back to the present. Now was not a time for fantasies of what had not happened.

“You whispered about loving us.” She spoke with affection in her tone and it made something in his chest warm. “About your worry for John and his fever, about our little Hamilton.” _Little Hamilton_.

“Good.”

“You also didn’t fail to mention your love for coffee,” she said with a small smile on her lips. _Oh, there it was_. There was always something. “Don’t worry, it can be our secret.”

“What did I ever do to deserve you, Eliza?”

“You came back,” she said. “You came back to us as you promised. That’s enough.”  _It wasn't._

“I had something to fight for,” Alexander said, a small smile on his lips. “One extra life to make the world safe for.” He let his gaze wander around the room, to the sun shining through the sheets and the birds passing. “Have I told you that I love you lately?”

“Plenty,” she reassured him, threading her fingers through his.

“Just once more than. I love you, love you both.”

“I love you too Alexander.”

 

 

 

Alexander’s footsteps sounded hollow on the stairway up to John and Martha’s room. He’d been reluctant to follow her at first, but she’d pressed time after time it was fine. Her expression and the thin line of her lips had told Alexander otherwise, but pressing that he’d come back would only make things worse. He knew that. She'd left him at the top of the stairs after pointing to the door. 

The door was already opened to a crack and what he could see wasn’t quite what he’d wanted to see. John looked like a mess; face red from fever and hair sticking in all kinds of directions. Even if he mustered up a smile for him, it was almost painful to see. It  _was_ painful to see his lover like this.

“Ham.” No matter how sick John might be, he still tried to sit up and smooth his hair down. “I’ve missed you.” John reached out one hand, the small smile still on his lips. “Sit down?”

Alexander was careful as he sat down on the edge of the mattress, making sure not to move it too much. Martha had told him he’d been having headaches, that even walking sometimes felt like bricks were being dropped on the top of his head. He wouldn’t be the one to do that.

“I missed you too,” he murmured. “We’ve all been worried about you and this mystery illness. Eliza asked me to wish you well. Are you still getting the headaches?” John’s hand was warm in his, too warm to still be healthy.

“I am.” John clearly wasn’t happy with it. “They’re lasting longer now. I wish they would just let me sleep.”

“Perhaps it’s the reason you have them.” Alexander ran his thumb across John’s knuckles. What he wanted to do was feel his head, see if it actually was a fever or if his hands were just warm from being under the blankets. “Lack of sleep does things to a brain that are beyond our comprehension. What did the doctor say?”

John scoffed at that. “There’s nothing they can really do. They actually told me to drink strong coffee or tea.” A glance at the nightstand told Alexander that it wasn’t working. It was littered with cups, some still half full. After all, he had always been the one of them to love both drinks. “There’s been a few other things he's suggested. Nothing is helping.”

“Are you at least trying?”

“It gives me more headaches," he muttered, glaring at the cups pointedly, "the others are just, wrong. I don’t like it. I'm not letting them drain blood. I don't trust it. Some days, the pain in itself is bad enough to have me disassociate and fade off. That helps.” Alex thought he could see pain flicker across his face. “Just the other night, Frances came to wish me good night and I didn’t even notice or felt her lips against my cheek. Martha is getting worried.”

“Isn’t there anything they can do?” Alexander was worried, felt it stir in his stomach. He had hoped that seeing John would settle his worries, but this visit was doing quite the opposite. “Something else you can ask the doctor to do?”

“I’m afraid I can’t.” Alex didn’t even know he was still holding John’s hand until he pulled it away to rub at his temples. He wanted to say something but knew it would only make things worse. He was no Eliza or what he could only imagine Martha was to him. His touches couldn't reassure. “Everything is so loud, so incredibly loud, the lights bright. I wish I could read, do something other than just lie here in this bed and do nothing.” John sighed, averting his gaze from him. “I don’t have any energy anymore. If this is what it feels like to grow old, I do not think I want to.”

 _Oh if anything had ever made his heart ache more than that remark._ Alexander looked around the room, at the coffee cup on the bedside table and the book next to it. Curiously, he picked it up. The title was unfamiliar, but then again, Alexander didn’t seem to have the time to read anymore. In between writing and fighting, there was only so little free time.

“Do you want me to read to you?” He opened the book to where a dried flower marked the place he had stopped reading. It was the last thing he’d expected in one of John’s books, but then again, he did love nature. Perhaps it wasn’t as out of character as he thought.

“Frances picked the flower for me on one of our walks. She’s a real sweetheart, I wish I’d told you about them earlier.” John was smiling, eyes closed. “But, I’d love that, Alexander. I just wish I knew where I’d left off. The story is vague.”

Even if Alexander knew that John wouldn’t be able to see, he threw him a warm smile anyway. “I can start from the first page. The story is as unfamiliar to me as it is to you. Would you want me to?” John just nodded.

“I’m sorry.” John sighed before blinking his eyes open. “Sit with me, please? The house is cold; at least sit under the covers with me. I could use a person to keep me warm.”

“Won’t your wife mind?” Alexander couldn’t help but frown. The house was more than warm enough, perhaps warmer than was good. “It’s her spot. She’s so new to it.” And Martha was, had been in the loop for what was going on between them for such a short time. The last thing he wanted was to go wrong _now_.

John opened his mouth to speak but closed it again when the door creaked open. Alexander barely had enough time to look around and see who had entered before he heard Frances running and saw the girl step between him and John.

“I don’t mind,” Martha said. “If it makes you feel a bit better, John.” Alexander knew the small smile she threw him was forced, that she still didn’t entirely agree with the idea. If he was honest, he’d been glad that she had accepted it in the first place. “I told them to send up some soup for you in a bit, love. You need to eat.” John’s expression fell at the mention of food, but he nodded anyway. “Alexander, are you staying for lunch? I can ask them to bring up a second bowl.”

“If you’ll let me.” Alexander threw her a smile before turning back to John, only to see him reach his hand out to Frances. She reached up on the tips of her toes, but could barely reach above the edge of the mattress. “Do you want me to help you up, Frances?”

“Yes please, sir.” It was as he looked down at her and lifted her up under her arms that he realized just how much of John there was in the child; the eyes and small smile, if he picked up on it earlier also her love for nature. She was so gentle as she crawled up to her father and pressed a kiss to the side of his face. “Get better soon, papa.”

“Thank you, sweetheart. Can I get a hug too?” Frances didn’t even hesitate before throwing her arms around her father, resting her head on his chest. Alexander couldn’t help but smile at the display of affection, at the way that John had tears in the corner of his eyes and carded his fingers through her hair.

“It’s already late Alexander, you should probably stay," Martha said from where she was still standing in the door way. Alex caught the small smile that was still on her lips. “How is your wife doing?”

“She’s doing well, thank you.” He turned his head back to Frances when she tugged on his sleeve and put her back on the floor. She was such a shy little thing. “The pregnancy is weighing on her now she’s nearing the end, but she’s doing well enough.”

“Maybe you should pay her a visit with Frances, love?” John asked, turning his head away to cough. Even the noise of his own coughing seemed to be enough to bring the pain back if the flinching was any sign of it. “It could do the both of you good.”

“Maybe that’s a good idea, indeed. I’ve wanted to talk to her for a little while now,” she said. “Come on Frances, time for a nap. Say goodbye to your papa and uncle Alexander.”

“Good night Papa! Good night uncle Alexander.” She wrapped her arms around him quickly before running back to her mother. Martha took her daughter by the hand and lead her out the door. “Alexander, if you want to stay for tonight or perhaps a little longer tomorrow, stay. You're welcome to. Your wife won't be alone.”

John smiled at them and watched until the door closed before letting his expression fall again. He dropped back into the pillows, head turned away from Alexander. _If only, there was something he could do to make a difference._

“Let’s start.” Alexander smiled as he sat down on Martha’s side of the bed after taking off his shoes. John leaned into him, eyes closed. “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…”

 

 

Eliza rarely had moments like these, in which the house was quiet and she could just sit down. With Alexander around, there was always something going on, a paper being written or a text to listen to. Whenever her sisters came by, there was laughter and talking, it was never quiet. Now, it was and Eliza enjoyed it more than she had thought. She loved her husband, with all of her heart, but sometimes the days she went without him were the ones she cherished most. He was gone so often on quests that could get him killed but now he wasn’t. For once, she felt comfortable knowing he’d be home soon, that he was safe.

So she sat in the sun with her hands folded on her belly and enjoyed it. The child had been kicking ever since she sat down, the rocking motion of her pacing no longer rocking it to sleep. Along the past few months, she’d picked up many tricks to get sleep, to have some calm. If she was still, it meant that the child was active, if she was active, the child seemed to be sleeping.

"You already have your father’s temperament,” she sighed as she felt a kick in her ribs. “He never sits still and neither do you. Can’t your poor mother have a moment to herself?” It was there again, what she could only imagine was a foot or hand. “I see how it is. You’re one lucky child, you know that? Cherished by a father and a mother.” She looked off, into where the dogs were running. “By John, his lover, if you are even a little bit the charmer he is. I hope you have his smile, little one.”

Eliza fell silent as she heard footsteps approaching. She waited as long as she could before getting up, dreading the moment she had to heave herself from her comfortable chair. The bigger her belly grew, the harder it was to move around. The more she dreaded it.

It was only when the figure was close enough that she recognized the vaguely familiar forms of Martha and Frances. The child was walking beside her, their hands clasped. Eliza couldn’t tell until she was already heaving herself out of the chair, but Martha was actually smiling. _What a contrast to their last conversation._

“Don’t get up, we’ll come to you!” she called once they were close enough and the truth was, Eliza was nothing but relieved.

“Thank you. I’m afraid it’s getting harder to get up. Take a seat, if you want.” She padded the chair next to her and waited until they were seated. Frances sat down on Martha’s lap, but neither Eliza or Martha failed to notice that she was looking at her bump.

“We’ve all been there,” Martha said with a smile, “I remember being pregnant with this one.” She smiled as she ran her fingers through Frances’s hair. “I was so glad that I had friends and family to help me through when John was out fighting.”

“Baby?” Frances asked when silence fell between the two women.

“Yeah, there’s a baby in there,” Martha said with a small smile. The child kicked as a reaction to the noise. Just a moment ago, she’d been sure the child did a full flip.

“The child is moving,” she said, a small smile on her lips. “Do you want to feel?” However uncomfortable it still might be, they were a family in a way. They’d meet later in life, they’d see each other again.

Frances looked at her mother for approval before walking over, fingers gentle as she put her hand to Eliza’s belly. It was almost with wonder that she pulled it away and poked it again, turning back to her mother and poking her belly before drawing her attention back to Eliza.

“It’s hard,” she said, with wonder in her voice. “Mommy’s belly soft, yours hard!” The child moved again and from Frances’s little giggle, she could feel it. “Baby?”

“Yes, that was the baby kicking,” she said with a small smile on her lips before taking her hand and moving it up a little bit, so she could feel it a little bit better as the child kicked again. “Already more like Alexander than I’ll ever be able to handle.”

“Frances was so calm when I carried her,” Martha said before picking Frances up again and letting her settle back on her lap. Whatever it was about seeing them interact had seemed to take some of the worries away. Eliza was happy to see it. “In fact, she was so calm when she was just born that John’s mother didn’t believe she was an actual relative of hers.”

Martha laughed and Eliza couldn’t help but laugh with her. Would Alexander’s mother be able to laugh with her? Alexander himself had no stories of his childhood or very vague ones, didn’t like opening up. With both of her parents gone, they had no way to tell if the child would take after her or Alexander.

“Thank you, for letting Alexander come over now John’s ill,” Martha said, expression souring as she spoke. “John got out of bed for him. It’s the first time in a couple of days I’ve seen him do more than sit up.”

Eliza knew the feeling. She knew that it had to hurt, seeing John do so much for another when he didn’t try as hard for her.

“From one wife to another, Martha, how are you?” Eliza knew that the implication of her question had to be clear at the way her gaze shifted. Martha just stared for a while, at the sun still rising in the background.

As odd as it may be, the silence was comfortable. It didn’t seem to weigh like it usually did.

“What choice do I have?” Martha shook her head and looked down at her daughter. “I can’t tear a family apart.”

“You know the choices. John loves you.” Eliza had heard John talk over dinner, about how proud he was of Frances, about how he loved Martha. ‘ _I am glad she puts up with me. She’s been a great help, since coming home’_ “If you insist, he will quit Alexander.”

Alexander would be heartbroken. He would lose a part of him that had grown incredibly important in just a few weeks. Seeing that would hurt Eliza, but it was a choice Martha had. Something she had to consider.

“And yet he loves your husband too, doesn’t he?” She sighed. “Wouldn’t it be wrong to take it away from him?” The conversation is almost too private to take place on the porch, where anyone could overhear them if the wind were right.

“I never claimed otherwise.” She tore her gaze away from Martha and back to the sun. _How could she word this_? “When I first realized the nature of the relationship between our husbands, I felt wronged too. It’s that feeling, isn’t it? Of feeling like you lose part of what you love?”

Martha just nods, fingers still running through Frances’s hair. She’s fast asleep against her chest, not even faced by the wind catching the ribbons in her hair. Soon, she could have that too. _Eliza would have a little boy or girl as well_.

“Have you seen them be together, actually together? When they think, you can’t see them?” Eliza smiled at the memory of seeing John steal a tender kiss when she was out fetching coffee or the way that sometimes Alexander would fix John’s collar. It was sweet to watch; Eliza had never been able to deny that. “You’ll understand when you do. They care for each other, more than I ever allowed myself to see. I didn’t understand at first, how Alexander could split his love, but I can now.”

She brought her gaze down to her belly, where her hands had moved back to her belly again. It was instinctive now, to protect the child.

“Can men? Can they truly love more than one?”

“I cannot speak for John, Martha, but I know my husband.” She tried to smile reassuringly, but it soon pulled into a grimace as the child kicked her ribs again. “Be calm. Please.” _Just a few more weeks._

“Children never do, whether they’re in or out.” Now it was Martha who tried to reassure her. _What a situation._ “I thought I knew my husband. It seems I don’t. The world’s not right for this.”

“I can tell you what my husband would say. We’ll have to make this world right for it. But Martha, look in your heart. Doesn’t John love you and Frances?”

”He does, he’s just so quiet when it comes to this, won’t even talk to me. I’ve tried to talk to him. He shuts down, murmurs, can’t look me in the eye.” Martha sighed again. “Especially when Fran is around.”

“Give him some time. He needs to get used to the idea that every party knows now. Alexander did need his time. Eventually, he’ll talk.” Eliza remembered the nights of going to bed in silence, backs turned to each other, the awkward conversations. How careful John had been when he was at their house. She hadn’t once seen them be affectionate with each other. Until she confronted him, _made him talk_. “I promise. Alexander, who always writes and speaks like he is running out of time, was _quiet._ I can count on one hand how often that has happened.” Eliza hoisted herself up out of the chair. “Did my husband ask you to come keep an eye on me, just in case?”

“They both look out for you, I think. It was John who suggested it. Said it would do me good to be out of the house for a time while Alexander is there.” She threw her a smile, carefully repositioned her still sleeping daughter so she could get up as well. “I think your husband is looking out for you and he picked up on it. Thank you, for letting him make the trip down.”

“He was worried.” Eliza had seen the stack of papers that fueled the fires, had known when he left the bedroom before the sun was even up because he couldn’t fall asleep. “ It’s the only thing I could do. Even if I were to have this child now, I don’t think I’d want my husband to be here from the starting point. I love him, but he freaks out easily.” She couldn’t help but laugh. “I’m fond of the carpets as they are. He doesn’t need to wear them down with his pacing.”

”John was entirely unhelpful,” Martha said before getting up. “The midwife asked if he could go fetch something to wrap Frances in. He just stood there, frozen. “I could have him distract Alexander for you, should you want to have him out of your hair. John wouldn’t mind.”

_That, Eliza could imagine._

“That would be kind of you, but I think he’ll manage. Peggy can be persuasive in getting people out of the room.” Her sisters would both be there. Alexander Hamilton could be out of the house within seconds if they glared. She really _would_ be safe.

“The offer stands.”

“Thank you, again. Do you want to come inside, drink some tea with me? I’ll give you a blanket for Frances. You can put her to bed for a little bit.”

“That would be nice, thank you.” Eliza just smiled and nodded before leading the way, leaving the door to fall shut behind Martha.

 


	2. Dear Philip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
> **ACT I:** _'You have married an Icarus'_
> 
> Chapter I: 'Dear Philip'

_You and I_

_Lost to the winter like Kansas_

_And all my goodbyes_

_Flat on the table like Kansas_

**-Vienna Teng, Kansas.**

** **

John had imagined this day in many different ways in the weeks leading up to it. The Alexander he knew was in a way unpredictable under stress or when being told to wait; he practically _knew_ he didn’t handle it well. John had been there for numerous nights of him drowning himself in the writing of papers, _anything_ to take his mind off the more important and looming tasks for just a few moments.

In a way, he was impressed with his lover. Impressed in the way that he had not yet reached for any of his usual comforts; no  alcohol had touched his lips in the past few days and even now, he wasn’t working, there were no papers waiting to be graced with ink.

The three of them – Alexander, his daughter and him – had been sitting outside on the porch or the last hour or so, had watched the sun set on the horizon. Angelica and Peggy had chased them away inside when labor had picked up for Eliza when she’d needed her privacy. John had been no less than eager to go outside and not witness or hear another birth.

He didn’t quite remember exactly how Angelica had worded it, but he the overall gist had been that ‘ _they really didn_ _’_ _t want to clean up Alexander_ _’_ _s blood too_ _’_ and that if Alexander wouldn’t leave, someone would ask for his help in a matter that was not his to be an active part of.

He figured it was the only sensible thing to do, to take them all out to the porch. It had proved to be the right thing to do, for it was calm outside. It was so quiet too, barely any sounds other than Alexander’s pacing and Frances’s running around. Every once in a while, there were the smallest of noises coming from inside of the house – something that caused him to perk up and turn to the door faster than a dog on the hunt.

John had so many favorite spots in the Hamilton house, but this had to be one of them. He loved it for precisely those reasons. Not that Alexander was appreciating it in the slightest. He’d been pacing for the last hour or so, walking up and down and up and down the porch like a man on a mission. John had attempted, he really had attempted to have him sit down, relax, but it never lasted more than five to ten minutes. Alexander jumped up each time he heard the smallest of sounds coming from inside. In a way, it was like keeping a nervous horse calm and quiet, but having no experience with horses.

“Does it always take this long?” Alexander asked again, stopping in front of the rocking chair John sat in. “It’s been at least an hour now.”

“Yes, Alex,” he sighed. John honestly wished that he could give Alexander another answer, to settle his nerves a little bit, but he couldn’t. “It is. This takes some time.” Waiting with Martha had been gruesome and he himself had hated every second of it. In her case, things had gone wrong, she’d had a very tough and long birth, but he too had been confined to Alexander’s fate after a while. He’d waited outside while his daughter cried and the doctor worked.

“But she’s been in this much pain since last night!” He had heard a vast variety of those exact words the past hour. Everything between the range of ‘but it’s been happening since last night’ to ‘but she’s been in pain for so long’. John had quite frankly lost count of how often he’d said that thus far. Each and every moment, he was starting to sound more and more like Frances did, like the moments she didn’t get what she want or needed to go to bed while she didn’t quite want to.

In all honesty, he’d been close to telling him exactly that. He’d been close to telling him ‘ _You_ _’_ _re sounding more like Frances every minute Alexander. Are you sure she_ _’_ _s not related to you_?’ He was wise however and kept his mouth shut. Alexander was worried, it was normal. John after all had been there too, had been in his shoes before.

“So you’ve said.” He wished that he would just stop pacing for a moment. _One moment_. Five minutes of him not having to turn his head every five seconds, just a little while of less pain inflicted by his headache. He reached out to Alexander, grabbing him by the hand. “It probably means that things will start moving along sooner rather than later. Trust me.”

Alexander sighed and threaded his fingers through his. John didn’t fail to notice how his eyes flicked to the side, to make sure that not everyone was there. As if he had done that if anyone was there. “Fine. But _does it always take this long?_ ”

“Alexander. Please.” One day, Alexander Hamilton would be the death of him. He knew that for a fact. “She will be fine.” He stressed every word, hoping – or more praying to God – Alexander would finally get it.

“Papa?” Frances had sneaked up on them, back from where she’d been playing with the dogs. She stood next to the rocking chair, a worried look in her eyes as she stared up at the both of them. Alexander let his hand fall out of his at the sight of her. “Is auntie Eliza okay?” John couldn’t help but smile at his daughter and the worry in her eyes. The smile melted away when she looked up at Alexander and back at him, started speaking again. “Will she end up like momma?”

“Of course not. She’s going to be just fine.” He hoped Alexander noticed the way he looked at him as he said the words. “Mommy was sick, Frances. Auntie Eliza is going to have a baby. This is a good thing. This is different.”

“Oh. Okay.” She smiled. “Can I hold the baby when it's born?” Her eyes grew wide with excitement. “Will it remember it kicked my hand?” After John and Frances had come to live with Alexander and his wife for a little while, both to get away from the Laurens family and to get away from the house where his wife inhabited every corner, she’d grown to love Eliza. He didn’t quite understand why she had chosen to bond with her, but they had. The last couple of weeks, she’d been more than helpful, helping fold the clothes for the baby and bring tea, smiling and giggling each time Eliza let her touch her belly because she loved to feel the child kick.

“Are you okay?” He hadn’t even noticed he was rubbing at his temples again or how Alexander was now crouching in front of him. Frances and Alexander both had a worried expression in their eyes. How could a child of barely three already been so worried about her papa?

“Fine,” he sighed, “The headaches still aren’t completely gone while the rest is. I’m not drinking a thousand cups of coffee again Alexander, don’t even attempt it.” John would never know how grown men got away with almost pouting, but Alex did and it infuriated him to no extent.

“Papa hug?”

“No, don’t worry sweetheart, papa is okay.” It warmed his heart that she wanted to help, wanted to make them feel better. “But thank you. Will you hug your uncle Alexander? He’s a little nervous.” She giggled as he turned towards her and lifted her up in her arms. It had become a bit of a habit by now, one John had to admit he loved seeing. They had all accepted each other in their lives so quickly, so easily, even if they had to be careful.

“Thank you, Frances.”

“Auntie Eliza is going to be fine,” she said before hiding her face in his shoulder. “Papa says so! You can always trust papa.”

“Well, if two of my favorite four people tell me she’ll be fine, it can’t be a lie, can it?” He spoke so quietly that John barely picked it up over the sounds of footsteps on the stairs and the slamming of doors inside.

“So I’m one of your favorite people?” he asked quietly.

“I never claimed otherwise.” Alexander put Frances down when more noise came from inside and someone yelled. He was back to attention, back to a nervous wreck faster than anyone could have said quill. Frances seemed to notice the change in his posture because she looked up at him with big eyes.

“She wants to see you, Alexander.” Angelica stood in the door, a warm smile on her lips. John could barely see her from where she was sitting, but he thought there was blood clinging to her hands.

“Is she okay?” Frances asked, eyes big, eyes focused on her hands as well.

“Yes, she is,” Angelica was still smiling, “she’s tired, but she's doing okay.”

“We told you uncle Alexander!” she said cheerfully. “She’s alright!” John felt his heart drop at her choice of words. He shifted her gaze up, just to check if her expression, but if anything, Angelica didn’t’ seem to think anything was wrong. He just hoped they were safe, for now.

“You did, indeed.” Alexander loosened up visibly before rummaging her hair. “Thank you. Frances here did a wonderful job of keeping me calm.”

“Come on up, while he’s still awake,” she said, nodding at him. “I’ll take the toddler out of your hands, John.”

”He? So she was right?” Alexander completely ignored her comment, grin stretching over his lips. “It’s a boy?”

”She was, indeed. Come on, before he goes back to sleep.” Frances crawled closer to him as Alexander followed his sister-in-law inside and closed the door behind him.

 

** **

 The woods had always been a place where John could calm down, let off some steam, come to himself. The rustling of leaves and the chirping of birds brought with it the feeling of being home. It was a home away from home, but a home he could always find, wherever he was.

When Frances had been born, he’d hoped she’d take after him. He had hoped that she’d love drawing and nature, that she’d be as interested in the wonders around him. And he’d been lucky. When he finally managed to bring his wife and daughter back, she’d been happy and enthusiastic. On their first walks, she stopped at every other ochre leave and examined it.

Today, it was a little bird that had captured her attention. He’d taken her out for a walk so the Hamiltons could have some time alone with their family, to spend some alone time with little Philip. This way, he got some alone time in with his daughter as well, something he’d lacked significantly in the past couple of weeks. Alexander and Eliza had been kind, in allowing him to stay, but they should be getting ready to move on now. It had been weeks since Martha’s death, the worst of the grieve processed and pushed away in a darker corner of his mind.

John knew, knew that they had to pack their bags and go back home. Yet, what he’d found here was calm and bliss. The Hamilton house had begun to feel like a second home in a way, a second place he felt comfortable and good. He’d seen Frances brighten up again, had seen her smile more, it was that that he perhaps wasn’t ready to give up. The ease and comfort, the happiness.

“Look, papa!” Frances said excitedly as the little bird she’d been staring at for the last five minutes finally took its first jump. For a minute, they both watched with held breath as the bird seemed to fall straight to the forest floor, before opening its wings and soaring up, catching the wind beneath his feather

“It did well, didn’t it?” he asked her as she clapped, cheering the little bird on. It was moments like this that he realized how much like her mother she was. Martha could get excited about little things as well, would be happy and cheerful at just being awake to witness dawn. Even by the end, she always had a smile for their daughter.

The relationship between the two of them had never been what it seemed like. They’d married mainly to keep her honor, she’d been five months pregnant by the time they were pronounced husband and wife. In a way, it had changed the relationship they developed. For John, it had never gone past platonic affection, a deep caring that was no more than friendship. He was sure she knew, that she accepted it in a way.

He couldn’t lie and say that he hadn’t admired that part of her, the part that always saw the good in things. She struggled, sure, but eventually she had accepted so much. While John didn’t dare show how romantically affectionate his relationship with Alexander was, she knew about it. Martha always asked what their day had been like and if he had a good time, she always seemed to back him up to some extent.

Frances was so much like her already. Perhaps one day, seeing her smile wouldn’t hurt as much. Even in little things like now, now that she had stopped by a patch of flowers and was staring at them.

“Papa?” she asked curiously, “do you miss mommy?”

“I do,” he admitted softly, crouching next to her. “Some days more than others, but I always do miss her. Do you miss your mommy?” She seemed to think about it for a moment, eyes up at the sky.

“Yeah,” she said quietly, running her fingers down one of the fallen petals. It stained the tops of her fingers vaguely pink, but she didn’t seem to care. “Auntie Eliza said that she’s right here.” Frances pointed at her chest, where her heart would be. “She’s looking out for me. From up there.” She fell silent again. “Papa, I think we should bring her flowers.”

“Perhaps we should. Which ones do you think she’d love? These ones? The roses?” He had seen her stare at a similar patch earlier, so perhaps she’d been considering for a while now.

“Yeah.”

“Okay. How about we finish our walk and then when we come back, we cut them off?” She nodded, the earlier sadness disappearing from her face.

“Can we pick some for auntie Eliza too? To help make her feel better?”

“I’m sure she would love that,” he said with a small smile on his lips, “but Frances, can you listen to me for a minute?” She nodded, pouting slightly. “Do you remember what momma and papa told you, about auntie Eliza and uncle Alexander?”

“That she’s not really my auntie?” she asked, clearly confused.

“Yes and what else did we say? What do you need to be real careful with when it’s not just the now four of us?” Her mouth fell open as if she only now realized what she’d said earlier. John couldn’t hold it over her, children didn’t always think. He didn’t always remember it himself.

“I’m sorry papa!”

“It’s alright, don’t worry love. Angelica probably didn’t even notice. Just try to be careful, okay?”

“Okay, papa. Around them okay?” She frowned again.

“Yes, of course.” He could help but smile at the memory of Alexander’s grin the first time she accidentally said uncle Alexander to him. It had seemed so honest and he had seemed so happy, even if it was just for a moment. It was an image John had stored in his mind. “Uncle Alexander _loves_ it.” John wished that he knew what Eliza thought of it. She was oddly quiet about the whole thing. It was great and in all honesty, John appreciated how calm she was surrounding it, he just wished he knew what was going around in her brain.

“Can we pick the flowers now and go back?”

“Of course,” he sighed. “Pick the pretties ones, okay? Auntie Eliza had a rough day, I’m sure she could use the brightest ones.”

“Okay, papa!”

 

 

Alexander was sure his heartbeat was faster than that of a Colibri as he followed his sister-in-law up the stairs to their bedroom. They had never seemed so daunting nor so long. The climb seemed to take ages, even if he knew it barely two minutes. With each step he took, he could feel the pounding of his veins, the hammering of his heart.

It came to an abrupt stop as he heard the vaguest of cries carry through the hall, accompanied by his wife’s laugh and Angelica’s chuckle. She turned around to him, shaking her head at him.

“Peggy probably took him,” Angelica said to him, “he’s been fussy about being away from Eliza. No more than a few minutes before he goes to look for her again. Peggy has been…disappointed by that.”

“He’s a smart boy already,” he said, a small smile on his lips. “Your sister is a real treasure. How is she doing?”

“You better treasure her, Alexander.” Her voice turned sharp. “You know our father will be out for your blood if you dishonor her.” She seemed to hesitate for a moment. “I will be out for your blood if you do. She is doing well, however. She’s sitting up and not complaining. She’s strong like that.”

“She’s one of the strongest women I know.” Only his mother had been stronger, had been through more and she reminded him of her so much already. “Are you getting at something, Angelica? Do you see a problem?”

“No, I’m sorry. It’s just a warning, one that was meant to be said a while ago,” she admitted. “My sister is important to me. I’m just sending out a warning.” Angelica sighed, but he didn’t dare look at her. _So she had been paying attention_. “Go see your son, Alexander.”

They stopped at their bedroom door. “I won’t do anything to hurt her.” Angelica didn’t answer, she just nodded at the door. He could already hear Eliza speak through it, her soft laugh. Only as he pushed it open could he understand what she was saying. For a moment, he couldn’t do anything but just stand there, stand there and stare at the view he was presented with. Eliza looked tired, but she was smiling. _Actually smiling_ , warmer than she had done the previous weeks.

“That’s better, isn’t it?” she said to their son lying in her arms. “Already thought so. Already fond of me, aren’t you?” Alexander couldn’t help but stare, stare at the dark head of hair, couldn’t help but hear the little sounds. “I’m sorry, Peggy.”

“Oh that’s alright, I’ll go downstairs and make you some tea, okay?” Peggy said from her spot next to Eliza. He saw her reach out her hand to do something to their son. “He’s so beautiful, Eliza. Congratulations. To the both of you. Do you want me to unfreeze your husband for you?”

“Yes please,” she said, but she was still smiling, he took it as a good sign. “And thank you.” Eliza shifted her gaze up to him. “Here’s your papa, Philip. Come here Alex, come meet your son.”

Alex sat down on the edge of the bed, unable to hide his smile as Eliza shifted so he could meet his eyes for the first time. The little boy just looked up at him, eyes wide, his little nose pulled up as he yawned.

“He’s so tiny,” Alexander couldn’t help but whisper as Eliza handed him over to him, careful to support his head until he had a proper grip on him. “Is this alright? Okay. He’s so small. So fragile.” He brought his free hand up to stroke his fingers down his hand, laughed a little as the boy clasped it tight. “Hello, Philip. Already proving you’re strong, aren’t you? Taking after your mother, already?” The little boy just yawned before letting his eyes flutter closed, his finger still clasped in his. “I promise I will be here for you, no matter what happens. You look so much like your mother, I’m glad.”

“If he becomes anything like the charmer his father is, I will be a happy and proud mother.” Her hand fell to his arm. “Is he asleep already? He must feel safe. He was with Peggy with just a few minutes.”

“I’m sitting closer by, you’re still right there to him.” Alexander couldn’t stop watching, at the long lashes, small eyes, the little button nose. He looked so innocent. “I don’t think he’s letting go,” he whispered. “Is this your way of keeping me here, so I don’t go back?”

“Maybe. Possibly. I wouldn’t tell you if it was, would I?” She was just teasing, but he knew the tone in her voice, just how much she hoped he wouldn’t have to leave again. “He has your nose, I think.” Her finger reached out to run it down his nose. “Maybe your jaw, we’ll have to wait for that.”

“He has your eyes. Angelica wasn’t lying, he is beautiful.” He couldn’t help but smile at his son, look back at his wife and press a kiss to her temple. “That just means he’s taking after you, my love.” Even after all this time, Eliza still blushed when he complimented her. It was the little things like this that would always make this is safe haven, that would always make _her_ his safe haven. She could calm him down so quickly, could always reassure him so quickly. “How are you feeling? Are you okay?”

“I am,” she promised, “a little painful and sore, but it was worth it. He is worth it. I’ll be fine soon enough, don’t you worry about me.”

“Can you believe it?” His voice was barely louder than a whisper. “We’re parents now.”

“Not yet. We’ll believe it soon enough.” She laughed a little as Philip’s eyes fluttered open again. “Wait until next morning, when he wakes us up before the sun is even up.”

“Somehow, I don’t think we’ll have a big problem with that. Look at how calm he is now.”

“He ate not too long ago.” Her finger stroked down their son’s cheek again, triggering the little smile that pulled at the corners of his mouth. “He’s like a drunk man now, but then the only responsible way. Aren’t you, little one? Milk drunk.”

“You know I love you, right? I don’t know what I deserved to have such a beautiful wife and such a calm little son. Thank you.”

Eliza smiled at him, rested her head on his shoulder. “I know. I love you too, Alexander.”

 

 

It was quiet when they came back from their walk. Frances had grown tired on the walk back, exhausted enough for John to take his daughter in his arms and carry her the rest of the way home. She rested her head against his shoulder and slept peacefully, only rousing when he stumbled a bit, or when the wind caught in the flowers she’d plucked and they brushed against her face.

John himself had to stop a few times, to pick up a flower that had gotten away from them, or when the scarf she had brought along dared to fall to the ground. He didn’t quite know what would happen if they lost it. It was the scarf that Martha had worn most in the end. Especially on the days she was cold and shivering at the least bit of cold coming in through the windows. Frances had clung to it like a safety blanket, refused to let it go some days. She slept with it hugged close to her on the days she missed her mother most.

For this walk, he’d carried it with him, held it safe until she needed it. It wasn’t until after they’d picked the flowers that she’d reached out for it, took it from his pocket. John had offered to wrap it around her, but she had refused to. _I’m not like mommy yet._ Oh, how it had made his heart ache. So he’d just let her hold it, hoping she found some comfort in it.

She babbled in her sleep. Small words and noises that he couldn’t make into sentences or sense of for that matter. Every few words, there was the mention of her mother, the quiet mumbled ‘mama’ that broke him. When she woke up, he wiped the tears from the corners of her eyes, pressed a gentle kiss to the top of her head and let her settle again.

“It’s alright love,” he whispered as he sat down with her in one of the rocking chairs. She shifted against him, head lifting ever so little. “You can sleep on.”

“Okay papa,” she mumbled.

“Are you cold? Do you want me to wrap the scarf around you?”

“No.” Frances shook her head, clutching the cloth closer to her lips. He’d noticed that she’d started doing that lately, almost as if it reassured her. “It’s cold.”

“We can go inside in just a minute,” he promised her, before slipping off his overcoat and wrapping it around her. The small smile she threw him was enough, for now. “You really miss your mother today, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” she whispered, bringing the scarf back to her lips. “Now auntie Eliza is a mommy too, but mommy is gone. It’s not fair.”

“I know, oh I know darling.” He’d been thinking the past days, of returning. Going back and settling their lives. Of giving the Hamilton’s some time on their own again. “Do you want to go back home?”

John himself wasn’t quite as opposed to it as he used to be. Life would be easier, it would make so many things run smoother. He wouldn’t force his daughter to run away from the grieve if they went back. Sure, he'd miss it, miss spending time here, but it would help his daughter.

“I don’t know. I miss my bed.” She fell silent for a bit and for a while, he was sure that she had fallen asleep. “I miss mommy’s stuff. But, papa, I’d miss auntie Eliza and Uncle Alexander too.”

“We would still see them, you know that,” he promised her gently, “we could come by and you could see Philip, but it would take some off the pressure of their backs. They’ve been very kind in letting us stay for as long as they did.”

“I think I’d like that.”

“Okay, we’ll talk to them later,” he promised. “See how they feel.” John would miss it at the Hamilton household. The past couple of days, the business had been nice; he enjoyed the company of the other Schuyler sisters. Peggy was vibrant as ever, lovely around Frances. Each time they spotted each other, he knew his daughter threw her a wide smile and that Peggy answered as enthusiastically, even with other company around.

Angelica was quieter, more observant. It was her that she was most cautious around, that he retraced every step and thought about what he said each time. He didn’t know what it was about the eldest sister, but something made her act differently around him and it threw him off.

“I already thought I heard talking.” He looked up to see Peggy standing in the door, smiling at him. “Mind if I sit? I brought a quilt, for Frances. You have to be freezing.” And he was. It was still January, it was relatively cold. He wasn't important in this case, however.

“Of course not. Sit down." He threw her a small smile. "How are they doing?”

“They’re good, I think,” Peggy said before sitting down in the chair next to him and passing him the blanket. Frances woke up for just long enough to throw her a smile and wrap herself in the blanket before settling back against him. “Last I saw, all three of them were practically asleep upstairs. That was an hour ago, they could be awake right now. You took quite the walk.”

“It was needed and we wanted to give them as much time as possible without getting in the way.” He left out that he himself had needed the break from all happiness. “I’m glad things went well.” John had only vague memories of Frances’s birth, but knew how problematic it had been, remembered how his daughter had cried and cried, how swollen her leg and hip had been. They were the days he couldn’t remember because he was barely there, but the sharp cries coming from her mouth were engraved in his memories. “Even Alexander is asleep?” 

It was good that he finally took the time between his hours upon hours of writing to spend some time with her. John had watched the first weeks as he practically locked himself up in his study and wrote down his ideas - often political - until sundown until Eliza (or he, when the stairs really became too much for her) came to persuade him to come to bed.

“Even Alexander,” she said with a small smile, “I think Philip was sleeping on his chest. He wouldn’t run away to just get some work in when his son is there, I hope.” Peggy shifted her gaze to the flowers Frances was holding. “Martha’s didn’t go well?” He’d talked to her about Martha, about the short five years they had been married. 

“Not quite. Both of them were recovering from it for months. By the time I got them here, a few months had passed and she was still exhausted and in pain. I don’t think she ever fully got over it.” He looked down at his daughter, at how she was curled up in his lap, and couldn’t help but smile. “She loved her, though. I don’t think the pain ever cut into that.”

“A mother’s love for a child goes deep. I’ve seen that today. Did she pick them for her?”

“For Martha? Yes. She saw them and said her mother would love them. When we travel back, we’re putting them on her grave.” John wished that they could just come back and hand them to her. “She insisted on picking some for Eliza.”

“Seeing her in pain threw her off, didn’t it?” Peggy asked, smiling when Frances blinked her eyes open again. "Good morning Frances.”

“Good morning, Peggy,” she mumbled against the scarf, blinking against the brightness. The sun had come back since they’d taken their seats and while it had been pleasant for John, it had to be a sudden change.

“It threw us all off, I think," she continued. "She’s such a strong woman. Even the strongest have a rough time sometimes, but when it happens…it’s odd. Eliza thinks it's worth it, however. You should have seen Philip, he's beautiful. You'll see what I mean when you see him. He’s incredibly sweet. If I could, I’d steal him from under their noses.” She laughed. "He looks just like Eliza, but there’s a lot of Alexander there already.”

"I guess I'll see later. Alexander must be glad then,” John remembered the letters and words exchanged, of how beautiful yet plain he’d thought Eliza to be. _How she was mesmerizing in a way, beautiful in her brain. I’ve always fallen in love with intelligence. My engagement with Elizabeth is only the prove of that._ "He's always been...appreciative of her."

"Oh, he is. Have you all eaten yet?” Frances shook her head, already a little more alert at the mention of food. She was so much like her mother sometimes. John himself hadn’t either, but he could later. He was sure no one in the house had gotten a lot of time and there were other mouths to feed, like those of Alexander and Eliza. Other people ought to come first, for now. “We still have some oatmeal left. Would you like some?” Frances looked up at him, eyes questioning.

“You can go. I’ll wait here for you and then we can see if they’re awake yet.”

“I can bring her up when she’s done eating if you’d like to go up now,” she offered. “It wouldn’t be a bother.” Peggy reached her hand out, which Frances hesitantly took after sliding off his lap. “They should eat as well. Would you be so kind to go up and ask them if they’d want something? Angelica had to leave for a minute.”

“Of course. Unless you’d rather go ask yourself? I can keep my eyes on her.”

“No, you go. I’ve already met Philip, you haven’t. You go on ahead."

“I’ll go see. Thank you, Peggy.”

“You’re welcome. Come on, little one, let’s go eat.”

 

John took the stairs up two at a time, careful to be quiet even when knocking. If they weren’t awake yet, he didn’t want to be the one to rouse them from sleep and disturb their calm. If Eliza felt even a fraction of the pain and weariness that Martha felt, she deserved to get a break from it, to step away.

Yet it was her who bid him in softly. She was already sitting up in bed, looking down at her husband and the child sleeping on his chest with affection. There were soft noises coming from both men; snores from Alexander and the barely there noises that had to come from Philip. He looked so tiny laying on his chest, barely there compared to the father he so gladly used as a pillow. Most importantly - John noted - she looked happy and content. There had always been something tugging at her before, now that seemed to be gone.

“You must be tired of hearing this, but congratulations Eliza,” he whispered to her, suddenly feeling a little awkward in the center of the room. He’d hoped, deep down, that Alexander would be awake, that he’d be there to me a mediator between his wife and his lover. It had always been a bit awkward, not knowing what to talk about. Even Martha had been easier in communicating with her and they’d barely spoken. Perhaps it was because they both were women and both of them were in a situation where they shared their husbands with another man. John couldn’t tap from that.

“Not yet,” she promised, “the only thing I’m tired of is sitting here while everyone takes care of everything for me.” Eliza smiled slightly as both of her men made noise at the same time. “Even if they’re taking care of me. These walls get boring very quickly, thank the lord for having someone much more interesting to look at now.”

“While we’re on the subject, Peggy asked me if you were hungry. She offered to bring something up for you.”

“Maybe later, I’m not quite hungry yet, though thank you for relaying the message.” She was lost in thought for a minute. “John, do you think you could help me to the chair in the corner? I don’t think I can quite walk that length without having someone to put some weight on.”

“Of course.” He walked over to her and held out his arm, supported her on the way there. She walked in short steps, clearly still in pain. “How are you doing, Eliza?” It had to be another question she had to be tired of hearing, but he’d like to hear it from her. As much as she was no more than Alexander’s wife, he’d grown to care for her in the past couple of weeks. “Peggy told me you’ve been strong, through this all.”

“I can’t say I’m surprised,” she sighed as she sat down, pulling the plaid over her lap, “that she said that, that is. I’ve been doing well, however. There is some pain, but it’s manageable. My mother warned me for worse. Sit down, you don’t have to stand there so awkwardly.”

“It’s a relief to hear you’re doing well,” he mumbled as he sat down. From the hallway, he could hear the stumbling of feet, a warm laugh. He could only imagine that was Peggy and Frances, coming up. “If things had taken any longer, I think you might have had to bring in someone to repair the porch out front. Alexander was pacing quite a number of miles.”

“So Angelica said. Apparently, you had my husband calmed down, however. Thank you, for keeping him calm.”

“It was more Frances’s doing than mine. I’m afraid my daughter has a better effect on him than I do.” Even though he laughed, it was the truth. Frances’s hug and the reassurance had been what calmed him down long enough for Angelica to arrive and bring him to his son. “I’m glad there was anything I could do to help.” John shifted his gaze to bed, to the source of the shifting and noises that by now had shifted into a quiet cry. “He seems to be a calm baby.”

“Oh, he is. So far, at least, I don’t want to jinx it. If he doesn’t see me or his father for a while, he’ll start to cry a little, but otherwise, he’s quiet, observant.”

“A little like Alexander, then, but with a better filter?” Eliza laughed at that.

“Yes, in fact. A small version of Alexander.” She glanced over when he cried again, higher pitched and more persistent. “Do you think?”

“Do you want me to bring him here?”

“If you could? Alexander will - in all likelihood - not wake up. He’s cried earlier and Alexander didn’t notice.” She shook her head. “I would go fetch him myself, but -”

“Oh no, I understand. I’ll bring him to you.” John was careful as he walked to Alexander’s side of the bed, weary as he lifted the child in his arms. He stirred for a moment, hand reaching out or the spot where his son had been lying, but he didn’t rouse from sleep.

“Be careful to support his head with your hand,” Eliza reminded him gently from her side of the room. “He should be relatively calm.”

It had been such a long time since he’d held a child so small. Even with Frances, he hadn’t held her for more than a handful times before leaving them behind in England. They were so vulnerable and small the first few days, he could so easily do something wrong. He hated having to leave them, but he had had no choice.

Philip was mesmerizing in a way. When he was so close to Alexander, they looked a lot alike, seemed to have some of the same mannerisms, but then he looked over to Eliza and Philip was indeed – as Peggy had told him – all her; the eyes most explicit of all.

“Here your mother is,” he whispered before passing him to his mother. “Eliza, if you need me to step outside if he’s hungry, tell me. I’ll go.” Alexander shifted in his sleep, clearly closer to waking up now. “It’s no problem.”

“Oh no, it’s alright, see?” She smiled as she cradled him close, stroked her thumb over the top of his head. The child quieted almost instantly. “He was just missing his mother, weren’t you, Philip? I thought so.” She was silent for a little bit. “You know, I’ve never seen Alexander sleep this deep. It’s a nice change.”

“I could hardly believe it. He’s been working long days the past few days, perhaps it finally caught up to him.”

“Perhaps. I just hope he’s not starting to fall ill again. He just completely recovered.” There was a gentle knock at the door as she said this and when the door swung open, he could see Peggy lead Frances in. It had been a while since he’d seen her so shy and reserved, holding both her mother’s scarf and the flowers close to her. The second she spotted them however, she started walking. The smile on her lips grew as she saw Eliza and the fact that she was holding a baby. _The baby_.

He hadn’t seen her this shy in a long time, hadn’t known her to hide so close to him in at least a few months.

“You don’t have to be afraid,” he said gently, “it’s just a baby. It’s Philip.”

“For whom did you bring the flowers, Frances?” Eliza asked gently, eyeing the roses she was still holding. Peggy must have taken her to her room first and brought the other ones there. It had to be why they’d taken so long before coming to the room.

“You!” she said, a small smile on her lips. “To make you feel better.” Frances took the few steps to Eliza, holding them up so she could see them better. John just watched as Eliza took them, smiled and thanked her, told her that they were beautiful. “Phi - Phiip?” His daughter frowned as if she was willing her mouth to form the word.

“Well seen.” She shifted Philip in her arms, so she could see him better. “This is the baby.” _Her brother, in a way._ John banished the thought out of his mind. He wasn’t and he should never start seeing him like that.

“Hang on,” he muttered before picking her up and holding her up so she could see more than just a top of hair. Almost experimentally, she reached out her hand, laughed when she touched Philip's nose and his gaze fixed on her. “Careful with the baby, okay Frances?”

“Of course papa.” She laughed again as Philip took hold of her finger and wouldn’t let go until Eliza ran her thumb down his fingers, replaced Frances’s finger with hers.

“A man goes to sleep with no one but his wife and son in the room and suddenly everyone living in his house and some more people are there.” John looked up to see Alexander sitting up, hair tousled and still sleepy it seemed, but awake. “I believed that you’d wake me.”

“We didn’t want to wake you, Alexander.” Eliza threw her husband a smile. “You seemed to need the sleep as well. Come, sit with us?” John’s attention was drawn back to Frances when she reached forward in his grasp and pressed a kiss to the top of Philip’s head.

When Alexander walked towards them, he was smiling.

So this had to be what it was like, to have a happy birth, to not worry  as much. Of course, there was still the chance that they’d lose him in infancy; John himself had seen many of his siblings pass away before they reached the age of eleven, his brother later than that, but he had survived birth and so had Eliza. They’d passed their first obstacle.

John knew a lot of things and knew that there would be challenges to face, but there was one thing that he was sure of. Philip would grow up in the warmest, most welcoming environment he could quite possibly have. With a mother clever as Eliza and a father like Alexander, with the rest of the Schuylers so close by, things almost couldn’t go wrong.

All John could hope was that he too could be part of that.


	3. When Memories Fade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
> **ACT I:** _'You have married an Icarus'_  
>  Chapter II: 'When Memories Fade'

 

 

It was so right, it was so wrong

Almost at the same time

The pain and ache a heart can take

No one really knows

 

When the memories cling and keep you there

'Til you no longer care

And you can let go now

**I can let go now // Nathan East**

 

** **

 

Things had moved quickly after dinner when Eliza had decided to call it a night earlier than she usually would, tired and worn from the day’s events. John had been surprised to even see her at the table and downstairs with all of them; he’d thought she’d stay upstairs so that she didn’t have to use the stairs and could give herself some rest. She had to know someone would bring her some food – probably Alexander, with how much he’d attempted to make sure his wife was comfortable.

She had made her way downstairs, still seeking support from Alexander and taking it one step at a time, but she’d come down regardless. John applauded her for that, he truly did. It was oddly pleasant, being surrounded by so many people. It reminded him of the earlier days in the Laurens household. The days when his mother had still been alive and they’d had sit down dinners with the entire family. He couldn't remember how often his father had been there, but none of the times he hadn't been around, were really mourned for, at least not by John. Henry Laurens was no  family man - while he loved his children, he'd always been hesitant always more focussed on schooling and making sure that one day, the could make him proud. He held his pride and appearances dear to him, focussed on knowledge and intelligence instead of family.

It was why this felt so different, sitting around a table with Peggy, Angelica, Alexander, Eliza and Frances. Their prayer was silent, their concluding amen oddly in sync for a room full of practical strangers.

Alexander ate eaten his entire meal with his son bundled in blankets laying in his arm. The boy had grown fussy and discontent with lying in his crib. From where he was cradled in his father’s arms, John knew he was more than entertained. Whenever the babe rose from sleep for a while, he played with the blanket, shifting it around in his fingers. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he could spy one of Alexander’s hair ribbons in the child’s hands.

Even if they ate in mostly silence, it didn't last too long after they'd finished. They sat down in the living room with teas and coffees to catch up, to perhaps learn to know each other better. Eliza excused herself relatively quickly after dinner and went upstairs with Angelica, who had been up with her since her labour had started.

As the night progressed, Frances too had fallen asleep, curled up against Peggy's shoulder at first. John loved seeing his daughter with her, even if it was odd to see her so attached to her already. Eventually, Peggy had carried her over to him and let her settle against his shoulder, before bidding them both goodnight. She'd woken up for just a few minutes before falling fast asleep again, hand wrapped tightly in the fabric of his shirt.

He’d waited until she’d started waking up a little before bringing her to her room and tucking her in, telling her a story that his mother used to tell them when they went to bed. She’d smiled at him, hugged her blanket tighter and gone right back to sleep. Mumbling all the while about things that John couldn't understand.

Pathetic as it was, hearing Philip cry made him feel uneasy, uncomfortable almost. John didn’t mind the cries of children; he had heard the cries of plenty while he was growing up. His mother had been pregnant often, even if she'd only given birth to five children who lived past their cheery and playful toddler years. His mother had been through so much pain and hurt so much, only to see so many of her children slip through her fingers. Some of his siblings had never gotten the chance to learn how to smile, some to crawl and others never got to take their first steps on wobbly legs. They had never even reached Frances's age.

Because of this, he'd heard plenty of cries growing up. Both the ones that meant they were just unhappy or the ones that meant they were in pain. He'd heard the high-pitched crying of a child close to death more than once. Not once had the cries bothered him as much as Philips did.

Seeking his refuge in Frances’s room, watching her as Philip cried in the background helped, in a way. Seeing her steady breathing made him feel at ease. At least she was alright, at least she was thriving and doing well.

“You don’t know how much I wish I’d been there for these moments. I wish I’d been able to hold you and comfort you in the first few months,” he whispered, knowing his daughter wouldn’t hear them through her dreaming. The words needed to be said anyway. “Your mother had to go through so much when you were born, was in pain for so long and I was destined to travel back to America.” He hadn’t known what he’d been set to miss. He hadn’t known that his wife would be recovering for so long, that Frances’s health wouldn’t stable out for a few months.

He sighed before standing up and walking back to her bed. It creaked as he sat down on the edge, but it wasn’t enough for her to wake up again. John smiled at her before brushing some hair out of her face.

“I wish you would have gotten the chance to learn to know your mother better. You’d be surprised at how much she could teach you.” It was the truth. Especially in the music category, John wasn’t talented. He didn’t play the piano or sing, only had his gift for drawing. Martha could have taught her those. Even if what they had had hadn’t quite been love or romance, he’d admired her, admired her for the mornings he’d woken up to hear her soft singing in the kitchen or while hanging the laundry. To hear her hum as she tried to comfort their daughter. Perhaps, for the times she’d reached down to her belly and sang to Frances. “She was smart, so incredibly smart. My only hope is that you’ll turn out to be in the slightest like her.” He threw her a small smile. He’d always hoped she’d turn out more her than him, more like her mother. She had his blue eyes, but everything else was pretty much her mother.

“I’ll have to leave you again.” It was sooner rather than later, an appointment set before Martha had even fallen ill. John hadn’t had the heart to postpone it; he’d known that he had to go to France, set sail back and have a shot at securing more aid. He couldn’t give up now. “The war is still on; we still have battles to fight. I’ll be in France for a while, but you’ll be in good hands. Your aunt Patsy is going to be looking after you, at home. You’re going to be okay.”

He’d been happy to hear that his sister would oblige, that she was good with taking care of her while he was gone. It hadn’t been needed, at first. If Martha had survived, she could have stayed with her mother. Yet she hadn’t, and the other Martha in his life had asked if it was what he wanted. Of course it had been; Martha was the only stable haven he could have given her at the time, had been the only person he knew that would give her the best chances she could.

“Good night, sweetheart.” He pressed a gentle kiss to the top of her head before getting up. Perhaps it was time for him to go to bed as well. The day had been long and seemed to drag on, perhaps he’d deserved it.

Only when he turned around at the door, to give her one last look, did she turn around in her sheets and threw him a small smile.

“Good night papa.” He felt a small smile creep up his cheeks.

Alexander was restless. He’d gone up to his study after checking up on Eliza and their son. He’d found them asleep together, his son already having taken up the spot on the bed Alexander usually took. Eliza had rested her hand next to him, close enough for her to be able to react to every little whimper. For just a moment, he’d realized all over again that he was _his son._ Throughout the day, it had started dawning on him, he’d started realizing. It was almost odd how easily he could forget that he was a father now.

In the past couple of years, he’d always been on the way to something. He’d always been either studying and revising or going into battle, doing anything to further his case. Alexander had lost count of just how often, he’d been send out by Washington to ride to other companies, other generals. He remembered tiring the horses and on more than one occasion, having to hire new ones, because the ones he’d left with were too exhausted to carry on. And now, he wasn’t. There was little he could do now but be there for his wife and son, but study in the hours and weeks he had in between. It had grown too late to continue on, his mind too strung out.

He looked up when a knock sounded at the door, confused as to who would still be awake at such an hour. The sun had gone down a while ago and as far as Alexander knew, everyone had gone up to their beds, even Peggy and Angelica had done so.

“Are you busy?” John was standing in the door opening, leaning in the doorframe.

“No, come in.” He pointed at the chair next to his desk, where Eliza had sat for a while to eat dinner, on days he’d studied all day. “Take a seat.” Even without really paying attention, he knew something was off about him; he walked more carefully, didn’t look him in the eyes. It threw him, even if it was probably nothing. “Is something the matter?”

“I want to…propose something,” he said, falling silent for a few minutes. “I think it’s time for Frances and I to return home.”

The silence that fell between them almost felt heavy. Alexander frowned before putting his papers to the side. Confusion was the best way he could describe what he felt. Why did he want to leave now? Now that things had stabled out?

“I thought you were due to head out for France soon? What about Frances?” Alexander had thought they’d stay for a while longer. He could leave Frances with them and let them guard her while he went to secure their alliance and eventually, would head first into battle again. He had seen it as a logical next step. After all, they were all family in a way. She’d be safe with them, comfortable. Frances seemed to have build a liking to each of them, smiled whenever her ‘uncle Alexander’ picked her up or when she could help her ‘auntie Eliza’ out.

“I am,” John said quietly, still not meeting his eyes. Alexander wanted to reach out his hand and _make_ him look him in to the eye, but refrained.

“Then, what are you going to do with her once you leave?” He hoped John hadn’t planned on leaving her alone with strangers or send her to relatives of which he knew she’d never met. They’d still be strangers.

“Martha is coming over to our house, to take care of her. It’s been settled for a while now, that she would. Staying with the two of you turned that around a bit - which I am thankful for - but I think it’s time we go back home,” he admitted.

“Of course. You must miss being home.” John hadn’t been at his house in weeks, couldn’t have felt like he was at truly at home ever since arriving here with his daughter, both of them pale and quiet, withdrawn.

“Not quite.” John looked up to him now. “Not me, at least. Frances does miss her home. It’s not fair to keep her away from all memories of her mother.” He threw him a small smile. “She has this dark blue scarf with her now, sleeps with it and everything. It never goes far away from her. It’s the only thing she has and she says she’s forgetting about her mother. I thought that perhaps, she could feel a bit safer at home.”

“Yes, of course. I understand.” They’d known they’d move along at one point. It was unavoidable. “Know that you’re always welcome back here. Eliza and I thought you’d leave her with us while you’re gone, but your sister probably is a better fit. Should you change your mind, know that she’d be welcome. She’d be safe here.” He reached out and took John’s hand in his. “I wish you didn’t have to go so soon.”

“Frances misses home, I’ve got no choice but to put my daughter first,” he said silently before looking down at where their hands met. John clasped his free hand over his. “I miss the house, being around everything, but.” He looked down again before shrugging. “But I’ll miss you as well.”

Alexander couldn’t help but throw him a small smile. “Know that the feeling is mutual.”

“Are Peggy or Angelica still up?” he asked, running his fingers gently up and down his fingers.

“They all went to bed a while ago, why?” He couldn’t keep the confusion out of his voice.

“Because I’ve wanted to do this all day,” he admitted before reaching out and pulling him closer. He could feel his breath ghosting against his skin before their lips met in a gentle kiss.

“Congratulations on your son. You seemed so happy earlier,” John whispered against his lips, a smile stretching over his lips as Alexander touched his forehead against his. “It’s good, to see you happy like that.”

“It’s hard to be unhappy.” He smiled before running his fingers down the few curls that had escaped from the carefully pulled back mess of hair. He’d always been so intrigued by them, of the way they stubbornly held shape. “You seemed to be as well today, with Frances. Were you?”

“I think so, but then again, I’m easy to please, give me the ones I cherish most and I am happy.” He fell silent for a minute. “Especially when they are as well.”

“And yet, you can’t have all of them, can you?” He shifted his gaze to the windows, at the moon shining through the curtains. It had gotten late, perhaps too late for a conversation like this when it was held without alcohol.

“No, I can’t,” he admitted, “but I have two and that ought to be enough, for now.” John sighed before reaching out and straightening his shirt. It was oddly domestic, even if what they had going on between them wasn’t quite that. Or at least, it hadn’t been until John came to their house as a way to cope with the grieve. Somehow, stealing morning kisses and sometimes, taking walks with John through the woods had become their truth, their reality. It had become mornings sitting on the porch and talking. Some days, John helping him with his studies.

He’d miss that, he realized, when John would leave again. “It’s all I’m getting, regardless of what I can have. Don’t worry about me, Alexander.”

“You know I do, I always do,” he admitted with a small smile on his lips. “Eliza does too, I don’t know how much that means to you or how much of it you have noticed, but she does care for you quite a lot.”

“It does mean something.” John admitted, squeezing his hand lightly. “I’m honoured she does. Speaking of your wife; perhaps it’s time to go to bed. Studying will not to do you well now. Go be with your wife and son, they’d appreciate it.” He opened his mouth to speak, but John silenced hi with just a touch to the shoulder. “No, go. You’ll regret it if you don’t have any memories of now.” He threw him a small, perhaps strained smile. ”Cherish them, don’t make the same mistakes I did. Take some of the weight of Eliza’s shoulders, if you can. She will not look at you the same if you’re absent now.”

“Alright.” He sighed. It was too early and he had so much work to do, but he was right. Eliza wouldn’t appreciate it. “You go to sleep as well, okay?” Alexander knew well enough John had been having a few rough nights, that he hadn’t slept on some occasions.

“I will.” It was a quiet promise. John smiled before standing up from his chair, pulling him with him. Alexander had no choice but to follow him. He was already making move to leave the room, heading for the door, when Alexander tugged on his hand.

“Can’t I get a good night kiss then?” Hearing John’s warm laugh as a reply was perhaps enough for him.

“You didn’t give me a chance, did you?” He muttered something under his breath, oddly resembling ‘ _you adorable bastard’_ before he stepped closer, rested his hands at his hips. Alexander couldn’t help but lean into the touch, deepen the kiss when their lips finally met.

“Good night, Alexander,” John whispered against his lips before resting his head on his shoulder lightly.

“Good night,” he whispered in reply and watched as John threw him a smile and he slipped out of the room. Alexander waited a little before slipping out of the room as well, finally making his way to his wife and son, to rest.

** **

John woke up gasping for breath, sweat clinging to every inch of his skin. He could feel it bead on his front, in the way his hair was tangled and damp at the nape of his neck. Last night’s nightmare had been too vivid, to realistic, too clear in his mind.The aftershocks still clung to him. He laid in bed, trying to calm his practically frantic breathing, trying to clear the images from his mind. His heart was pounding, an energy that had no reason to be there coursing through his veins. John hoped it would stop soon, before it send his skull into another lapse of pain, before it would force him to suffer again.

Not even sitting up in bed seemed to helping. He’d brushed his hair out of his face and attempted to collect his thoughts. To think happy thoughts, _different_ thoughts. Jemmy was there in the back of his mind. He’d been smiling in his dream, no longer the nine-year-old child with a blush on his cheeks, but a tall thin figure in his late teens. _He’d been grown up_.

In his dream, Frances had ran towards him, smiling and laughing before reaching her hands up and asking him to pick her up. _Pick me up uncle Jemmy! Make me fly_. She’d yelled for her mother, caught in giggles when he started ticking her instead. _Mommy save me!_

Hearing her say those words, seeing Martha walk up to them and smile, seeing her take her daughter in her arms yet again and brush her hair away from her face, it had caused ice to run through his veins. For a solid moment, John had forgotten how to move, breathe, speak and how a heart was supposed to beat. He’d just stood there, frozen, as his wife laughed with his brother, one she’d never even had the chance to properly meet.

He’d woken up on the verge of tears, with nothing but memories of the dream he’d had and the people he’d lost along the way. He’d grown to love both of them, had lost both of them in ways perhaps worse than dying on the battlefield.

“He’s not here.” John spoke the words with his eyes pressed shut. Perhaps, the darkness could bring him some solace, could trick his mind into forgetting, into regulating his functions again. “He’s not here.” Hearing him say the words out loud however, felt like an extra knife to the heart.

Reluctantly he opened his eyes, to check the light the sun was radiating. It was slim to one. The trees swayed in the wind.

“I need to wake up,” he muttered to himself, forcing himself out of bed, “right now.” It was almost mechanical that he got up, ignoring the popping of his shoulder joints as he gathered his clothes. John knew what he had to do, he needed to banish all ideas of his brother and wife, needed them out of his head and his memories clean. Neither could completely disappear from his heart, but they didn’t need to make a painful appearance in his thoughts.

If this worked there was a chance he could perhaps get through the day a little bit easier, a little swifter.

 

The fresh air and oxygen helped him clear his head faster than he could have wished for. Just the walk over to the little stream where he’d intended to quickly rinse his body was enough for them to disappear into the background. It was barely light outside, something even clearer while walking under the protection of the trees. The sun was barely starting to peek over the treetops.

John was thankful each time a little ray of sunshine hit his back or skin, each time he got at least a little bit of warmth back. He couldn’t complain about the cold, they’d had rougher winters, with temperatures closer to freezing.

While the previous weeks had felt more bitingly cold, it didn’t now. Yet, he didn’t know if it was the actual weather or if it was just a representation of his mental state during the winter months. Winter had always been rough on him, something about the temperatures dropping and nature dying made part of him die with them.

Having arrived at the stream, he wasted as little time he could before starting to undress. During the hot summer days, the stream had more than once been the cause of relaxation. When the water got the chance to warm up under the sunlight, it was pleasant to wade in the water and perhaps stay under a bit too long.

Today wasn’t a warm day, it was no summer so John _knew_ that he’d be freezing from the waist down. He knew that by the time he’d climb back onto land, he would be shivering and have chills creeping up ups legs, that for the first few hours, nothing he did would appear to make him feel warm. It should be worth it.

He ignored the shaking of his fingers as he undid the buttons of his shirt, as he carefully stripped layer after layer. John made sure to anchor down his clothes as he put them away, knowing well enough he couldn’t afford to go running after them when the wind caught in them.

There was rustling in the background and for a moment, he was sure there was someone there. If he’d had his gun on him, he’d had it in his hand already, ready to threaten.

“Anyone there?” Silence followed his question. John scanned the environment for any sign of movement, but there was none that wasn’t caused by the wind. He stripped further, finally stripping off his pants and undergarments, anchoring them as well before walking towards the water. He dipped his toes in first before walking in deeper, giving himself no more time to get used to it.

“Oh Christ, it’s cold,” he muttered under his breath, balling his fingers into fists as the water rinsed a scrape on his side. He knew that once brought his complete body under the water, he’d be used to it. The water always seemed to warm up after a while, as the difference between his body temperature and that of the water became smaller.

Yet, with a difference this big, John couldn’t be sure. As long as he promised however, there was a chance it would. Hope, after all, was always better than none. At least did what he’d hoped it would do. Jemmy was erased from his mind as the cold bit and his muscles trembled. He no longer could see that smile each time he blinked. He didn’t know why his mind has chosen today for a dream like that, why _now_ seemed to be a good day to remind him of the people he’d lost along the way.

It was as he came up after submerging his head that he noticed the shadows falling over the water. Alexander was leaning against one of the trees, close to where he had anchored his clothes down. When he glanced down, their eyes met and Alexander threw him an apologetic smile.

“We have a perfectly fine bath, “Alexander said, a mix of amusement and something similar to worry in his voice. “Did I scare you?” He was standing far enough away to offer a resemblance of privacy and John was grateful for it. Alexander had seen him naked before, it wasn’t that his body was something new, yet with the new wounds and scars, John felt awkward, conscious about it.

“It’s early,” he simply said, while wading closer to the bank of the river. He had been done anyway. He felt cleaner, less like he’d just come back from marching in a one-hundred-degree heat. Alexander reached out his towel to him, which he gladly took. “I didn’t mean to wake anyone up.”

Even with Alexander there, drying down and starting to get dressed again was mechanic; he dressed quickly and without paying attention to the other man. Alexander didn’t seem too bothered by it himself, he just stood there and let him be. He’d noticed that he’d been looking him a little funnily but John knew Alexander, knew him more than well enough to know he couldn’t hide anything. “Why are you already awake?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Alexander said, shaking his head. “But if you must know, Philip was awake, it woke me up…and I must admit collegial habits never quite disappear. Especially not now I’m reviewing again.” John remembered the night in their tent when he’d told him how he used to study when he was still at King’s College; until the sun was about to go down, only to get up again at dawn and pace the burial site, attempting to review as quickly and efficiently as he could. It had reflected itself in the way he worked; he’d wake up when there was even a semblance of enough light and start working on whatever Washington had asked him to draft. He _had_ to admit it had intrigued him at first. Alexander was one of the first people he’d ever known with graveyards as part of their study routine, but then again, it wasn’t like there weren’t any other weird ways to study out there.

“Children rarely sleep through the night the first couple of months,” he said with a small smile before reaching out for his shirt. He’d left them for last, knowing that getting his feet and legs warm was more important than anything. They had been submerged longest.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, confused, as Alexander stopped him when he wanted to slip it over his head. His fingers brushed gently, almost hesitantly against the raised skin on his right shoulder, the place tormented by more than one wound. He should have flinched away, or wanted to do so, but the fingers felt so comfortable, so familiar. He seemed almost tentative when he stroked his thumb over the wild flesh.

“I hadn’t seen them before. Are they recent?”

“Not quite,” he promised, “a year or so, perhaps a little less.” He had been injured so often, especially his right shoulder. The wounds and cuts all blurred together, leaving ugly marks. “It didn’t heal as well as hoped.” He pulled his shoulder away from his touch and pulled the shirt over his head. He hadn’t meant to get into that, not today. “One can only be lucky so many times.”

“You didn’t answer me on why you’re up before dawn. I am used to it, you know that as well as I do.” Alexander threw him a small smile. “Yet you aren’t, Laurens.” He shifted his gaze up, caught John’s eyes with is. “It’s not the headaches getting worse again, is it?”

“Oh no, you don’t need to worry,” he promised quietly. His fingers still shook as he attempted to button his shirt up. He noticed – Alexander always did – and reached out, did up the buttons himself. His fingers worked quickly efficiently. “I’m…”

John fell silent, unsure of if he should tell him.

“Why don’t we go to my study?” he offered, noticing the way that he was still shivering. “It’s warm – you must be freezing, John, why did you ever decide to go this foolish thing I do not know. We can have something to drink.” He turned pensive for a moment, small smile on his lips. “A bit early for anything strong, but maybe tea. We can talk there.”

He ran the suggestion around in his mind. Warmth and tea sounded wonderful, even if John didn’t look forward to talking to talking about Jemmy, as good as it could sometimes feel to talk about the dead.

“I think I would prefer that,” he admitted, with a small smile on his lips. “Thank you.” Alexander took him in for another moment, decisive for a moment before slipping off his overcoat.

“Here.” He draped it over his shoulder. He tried to shrug it off, to give it back to Alex, but he wouldn’t allow him to. Each time, he hung it back over his shoulder. “John, I insist. I’m not cold, I don’t need it.” His hand rested on his shoulder a little longer, squeezed it gently. “You are the one who bathed in a freezing stream. You cannot afford to fall ill now. She needs you.”

John just nodded before following Alexander back to the house. Even if he didn’t want to say it out loud, he still appreciated the extra warmth. Alexander had been right; he couldn’t afford to fall ill, not right now. Even if Alexander was the one between the two of them with the frail health, the one who really couldn’t afford to fall ill.

But yet, he looked out for him instead, even if John didn’t quite deserve it. He couldn’t help but be thankful, no matter how small the gesture was.

 

Alexander had lighted the fire, the flames only now starting to lick at the wood. The warmth of it was more than welcome and though John did not like admitting it, he huddled closer and tried to soak up as much of it as he could. The blanket Alexander had given him the second they walked in the room helped as well and he _had_ buried his hands in it.

“You’re being overbearing,” he complained as Alexander put another block of wood on the fire. He’d set his cup of tea on the table next to him and he’d had gladly taken it. The warmth was slowly working its’ way through the blanket and warming his fingers from their frozen state.

“Let me be,” Alexander sighed before sitting down in the chair next to him. “You’ve given us all cause for worry. You have done so for a long time. Let us, if it makes us feel any better.” _Us_. He wondered, but didn’t comment on it. “Now tell me, John, why were you even awake?”

“I told you it’s nothing,” he sighed, but turned to look at Alexander anyway, “it’s just ah, a bad dream. Nothing to worry about.”

“John, if it would be nothing, you wouldn’t hesitate before talking about it.” He had a point, it was something. Jemmy and Martha both were important to him, more important than he perhaps realized some days. “Please, tell me. Don’t bottle things up – god knows you always do.”

“I haven’t told you about my youngest brother, Jemmy, have I?” he asked. “Or of the time we all spend in Europe together?” He just shook his head and John was glad. At least he could start his story off on a positive note, at least he could start with the good days they’d had while there. They’d shared plenty of laughs, plenty of small ways to relax in between reviewing French or maths.

“I had two surviving brothers when my father brought us to Europe,” he said, a small smile on his lips. “Harry and Jemmy. Harry – or Henry Jr. – was the oldest of the two. Just a few weeks ago, he turned seventeen years old.” He shifted his gaze away from Alexander, staring at the flames that licked away at the wood. He couldn’t tell the story and see his face fall or expression shift. He knew that. “If you speak to my father, he probably will not speak highly of him.”

John himself had always taken pity of that. He was treated like less, just because he wasn’t as explicitly good at things, like Martha was. Like his father thought he was. “My father takes a certain…pride in Martha and I. Jemmy as well, in a way. Harry, not so much. I feel for harry, trust me I do. I just, cannot help but envy him for that. It’s less pressure on your shoulders. Or perhaps, more. I don’t know.” He took his cup of tea in his hands now it had finally cooled enough to hold without the security of the blanket. “I spend a lot of time in Europe both studying and tutoring the both of them. It’s was a calm time, gave us the chance to be ourselves, in a way.” He heard Alexander shift in his seat and when he looked over, he noticed that he’d shifted closer, was now barely a few centimetres away from him. “I was their guardian while there…I was supposed to _protect_ them, make sure they came back to South Carolina safely.”

John bit his lip, took a deep breath. He’d never spoken about him in so many words. Many didn’t know about Jemmy or what had happened. “Jemmy – or James, if you will - is my youngest brother. He was nine at the time, just a few months shy from turning ten. He was _filled_ with energy like you wouldn’t believe. It made studying harder for him.” John couldn’t help but smile at the memories of his little brother almost begging if he could go play outside, if he could run over to the fields real quick, as a little bit of a break. He’d always been so weak for his pleas. “Last I remember is helping him with his French. He kept making these same small mistakes. Oh god and some of his pronunciations were terrible. He kept making the same small mistakes. He couldn’t seem to grasp numbers like _quatre-vingt_ and _quatre-vingt-douze._ ”

“I can imagine,” he said, with a small smile on his lips. “The numbers aren’t quite what they appear to be sometimes.”

“They certainly aren’t, I know I myself struggled with them quite a bit.” He laughed, remembering the days himself. He hadn’t been an inch better than his brother. “Jemmy was playing outside when it happened. I’d told them both to take a day off, enjoy the sunshine while they could. I mean, like I said, he’s only nine at that point. A boy shouldn’t study all the time. Last of him that I remember is telling him that I was going into town for a while, while they were busy. I... found myself quite…lonely, among only people who are years and years younger.” His fingers curled up in his fingers, as if it would help him. “By the time I came back, it had already happened. Harry was there. He told us, later. Jemmy was playing when he fell. It was a stupid railing of all things. He hit his head wrong. The doctor said that they tried but...”

“John…” Alexander took one of his hands in his, made him untangle his fingers even the slightest.

“You know what I remember last? His eyes opening for a little while and seeing those eyes stare up at me. He was in so much pain, you have no idea. He was already off very badly when I got back at the house. He breathed his last breath that night, holding both Harry and my hand. My…father was heartbroken for a while. He’d lost my mother just five years earlier, now another one of his children, this time one he saw grow up past the age of crawling and babbling. It hit him. I’ve always felt guilty about it, perhaps I still do.”

Alexander squeezed his hand lightly, reassuringly. “John. There wouldn’t have been anything for you to do, even if you were in the house. Perhaps, if I understand right, you could have been teaching him, but that was all. From what it sounds like to me, you would only feel more responsible, because _you had been there_. There’s nothing you could have done.”

“Perhaps. I got distracted, I’m sorry,” he sighed before shaking his head. He hadn’t meant to go into detail, not now and not there. “It wasn’t my point. I didn’t mean to tell the sob story in full. What I _meant_ to tell you is he is part of the reason I was awake, along with Martha. It was just a bad dream, they happen.  I needed to clear my head, it’s why I was up and out, to answer your question. It’s never nice to dream about your deceased wife, daughter and brother all at once.”

“You have peculiar ways of clearing your head,” he said. “Unhealthy ones at that.”  He moved his hand up to his arm, rested it at his shoulder. He knew it was his way of silent comfort, from the person who always knew what to do.

“Says the person who studied until sundown and woke up and dawn, walking at a burial site,” John said with a small smile on his lips. “I don’t quite think that you can lecture me on health.”

“I hope you know I most sincerely regret telling you that,” he said, small smile on his lips. “At least it could bring you a pneumonia, or fevers. You can’t board ship if you’re ill.”

“Oh I know you do,” he said with a small smile, glad that the mood had been lifted after all, “it’s why I like bringing it up. And I’m aware, I won’t. I promise. Now, how was your night, Alexander? Did Philip wake you up often?”

“It was…calm,” he said. “He only woke up a handful of times to nurse. Calm. He only woke up a couple of times to nurse - nothing I can do to help.”

“You must be lucky, but then again, Eliza is a quiet and reserved – he must take after his mother instead of his father,” he said, “he, after all, can’t quite keep his mouth shut, can he?” John hoped he noticed his teasing and he did. Alexander threw him a warm smile.

“Perhaps, who knows. Who knows.” He looked away, at the door they’d pulled shut behind him. “You are right however, his father does not know when to stay silent. Silence seldom saves a man.”

“And yet it has,” he argued. “There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens: a time to be born and a time to die, a time to plant and a time to uproot, a time to kill and a time to heal, a time to tear down and a time to build, a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance, a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them…” John felt a smile tug at the corners of his mouth as Alexander realized he was quoting the bible at him. “A time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing, a time to search and a time to give up, a time to keep and a time to throw away, a time to tear and a time to mend, _a time to be silent and a time to speak_ , a time to love and a time to hate, a time for war and a time for peace.” He was pretty sure that Alexander was close to rolling his eyes at him. “Or are you saying that the bible is lying to us?”

“I wouldn’t. What I _would_ say is that you have spent too much time with the bible too close to your chest.” He smiled at him. “Are you alright, John? Truly?”

“If anything, I will be, soon,” he promised. “When I know that I can hold my daughter without having to go back into battle, then I’ll be.”

“I wish you wouldn’t, go back.” He glanced at the door and when there was no sound coming from nearby, threaded his fingers through John’s. “You don’t have to.”

“No everyone can turn their back like you do, Alexander. You may have found your peace with studying the law, but I still have battles left to right.” He forced a small smile on his lips, leaned closer to Alexander. “I cannot rest until they’re fought, until we have a chance at rebuilding this country away from the British, I hope you understand.”

“I do, trust me. Doesn’t mean that I wish I didn’t have to worry about you, while you’re out.’ He shook his head. Just promise me you’ll think of Frances before forcing yourself into battle, that you allow yourself rest.” He let his hand go. “Promise me you will do your best to come back, that would be enough, for now.”

“That, I can promise.” John had been afraid while he was talking, afraid that he would ask him to promise to come back. He knew for a fact that he couldn’t promise that. War was a dirty game and John knew he was okay with losing his life in battle. At least, if he did, there was a purpose behind his death. He would have served a duty. Perhaps, that could be enough for him. “I will promise to do my best, to come back to my family. The entirety of it.”

 

Their teas turned cold as they sat in front of that fire and did nothing but talk. Talk about more fatherhood, about both Philip and Frances. Talked about how Peggy had practically been the saviour of her baby sister a few months prior, when the Schuyler’s parental house had been under attack.

At some point, John drifted off to sleep again, comforted by the warmth and company. Perhaps Alexander Hamilton was a bit of a safety blanket effect on him, but if that had downsides, he had yet to find them.

The cold had worked, but perhaps, Alexander and his family was still the best medicine to his broken heart and mind.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it took me a while to get this chapter out! I cannot promise you that I'll be any faster with the next, but know that I _am_ working on this fic even when not consciously writing. (Most of the second act has now been plotted out, now I just need to tackle the rest of this draft.) I hope you enjoyed the chapter and again, thank you for reading! ♥


	4. The unalterable sentiments of your affectionate Laurens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
> **ACT I:** _'You have married an Icarus'_
> 
> Chapter III: 'The unalterable sentiments of your affectionate Laurens'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the wait on this chapter! It's shorter than most, but we finally see some action. c:
> 
> Warnings before I begin; this chapter spans quite a long period of time. It picks up at the beginning of February 1781 and ends around August 1782, so it's quite a while. Notes on (questionable) accuracy in the end notes of this chapter, for those who are interested in actual historic events. I tried my best to recreate John Laurens's writing style, but apart from business letters and war correspondence, there's not much to be found, so I tried my best. c: Translations for the French at the end of the chapter!
> 
>  **Warnings added** for grief, self-doubt, blood, injury, assumed death and mentions of scars. Tags added for mentions of Christianity (added in the past and more for later chapters). There is also some suicidal thought process in this, at the end of this, along with talk of wounds. [for which the tag will be added soon]  
>  Hope you enjoy! c:

_Send out the morning birds to sing of the damage_

_Now that the calm's returned, I know I can't manage_

_You're standing in my doorway, though he's asleep in my bed_

_The steady murmur, always in my head._

_You're the finest thing that I've done, the hurricane I'll never outrun_

_I could wait around for the dust to still, but I don't believe that it ever will._

**Hurricane // The Hush Sound**

 

** **

 

**FEBRUARY 1781**

 

They had ridden back to South Carolina in a relative peace and quiet. As the valleys and hills rolled by, John kept his daughter close to him, let her rest her head against his torso. After spending so much time with her in a short period of time, he’d started noticing how much she had changed in the past couple of months. She had turned four years old just a few days before and somehow, it had made him realize all this.

She had been quiet the whole ride, had started out by leaning into him and then resting her head as time the carriage rocked side to side. John was proud of her, for being so good when saying goodbye. Frances had smiled and pressed a gentle kiss to the top of little Philip's head the night before they left, helped Eliza put him in his nightgown. The day after, she'd given both Alexander and Eliza a hug, said her goodbyes to them in quiet whispers. Seeing her wave until neither of them could see her clearly was almost a comfort.

It had taken them two days to get back home and perhaps it was the dreariness of the journey and just how exhausted he really was after countless nights of restless sleep, but John had to admit he had missed it. There were the little reminders again of a semi-comfortable life, one that he had not much indulged in over the previous years. Between being taken as a Prisoner of War just the previous year, being in battle a lot, he hadn’t spent a lot of time resting, he hadn’t gotten a lot of chance to be at his own home. Martha and his daughter had gotten the chance and as far as he knew, they had counted it as their home. Even if perhaps, Martha's heart had still been in England, not in America.

John didn’t know if it was because he had been gone for too long, if he was exhausted or if it perhaps was because he soon would be leaving again, but stepping into his house for once, felt like coming home, even if it was just for a couple of moments.

Seeing his daughter see her aunt for the first time in a few weeks made a smile stretch across his lips; she threw her arms around Martha and hugged her tight. His sister too smiled, asked how their trip and been and if she had missed home. John had just watched as his sister led her to a chair and they talked about the time at the Hamilton household, of the energetic miss Peggy - _her real name is Margarita, but Peggy suits her more! It’s shorter!_ \- and the beautiful miss Angelica. She told her all about baby Philip and the way he’d held her hand and for a moment, John had been brought back to that first night. That night when they’d arrived and Frances had refused to be even an inch away from her mother. She’d looked so scared and bewildered in environments she didn’t know. Scared of _him_.

It had been the first time John doubted if having them make the dangerous journey to South Carolina was worth it: if it hadn’t been better if they had stayed in England, where Martha had family and a support system, where she’d known people. It hadn’t been the last time he’d doubted that either. Far from.

It had returned at full force when Martha passed away and she had seemed to be so inconsolable. Nothing he could do seemed to stop her sadness, not the sweetest porridge could get her back to eating. It had been a few days, the first of which he dreaded he could possibly lose her as well. She had come back from it, had started feeling more comfortable and slowly ate again, but it had scared him. There was something about his baby girl crying in her sleep and fighting to eat that he would never forget.

In fact, it scared him enough that he talked to Alexander about the situation. John had asked Alexander about what he thought: if he considered his choice to be the right one. It had been one of the first times he’d called her his daughter out loud and it had still left him feeling a little bit weird. It was a name that had to grow on him, the role of father. Alexander had told him, loudly even, that it was the right thing to do. John trusted him, knew that he hadn’t grown up in the best of environments, that he’d been through a lot, but somehow, the doubt was always there, still was. He doubted it would ever be gone.

Frances slept in her own bed for the first time in weeks that night, clutching the scarf close to her chest. John had almost expected her to be weary, to have a hard time falling asleep and yet, the opposite had happened. Frances had walked to her aunt Patsy and asked her if she could read her a story before bed. Polly had joined her in asking if it would please be possible. Martha had done so, smiled and took them by the hand, to lead them upstairs and tuck them in.

When John eventually went upstairs and peeked in the door, Polly and Frances were sleeping shoulder to shoulder, neither of them making as much as a peep. If it was odd, seeing aunt and niece so close, he didn’t think it was. She seemed happy, peaceful and was seemingly doing good, _both of them_. It was all he needed.

“She’ll be safe here,” Patsy promised after closing the door. “We’ll be good to her. I hope this is enough prove.”

And it was. If John had had any doubts about her staying with his sister, they were dimmed.  “It is. Thank you, Patsy.”

“Don’t thank me yet.”

 

They picked fresh flowers the following day. Because they’d stayed longer than expected at the Hamilton’s, the ones Frances had been dead set on picking had wilted. While he had thought she would mind, his daughter had handled it gracefully, had just smiled at him and asked him if they could pick new ones at home. _The flowers were so pretty papa! Mama would like_ our _flowers. Not auntie and uncles._

Patsy walked next to him mostly in silence; she was keeping an eye on Frances and making sure she stayed close. John himself was doing the same, though he was more making sure that she wasn’t going near anything dangerous.

“Jack?” she asked him quietly when they stopped to let Frances examine a few rocks near the path. She not once shifted her eyes from his daughter’s yellow dress. “Would you reconsider?” John watched as well, as she picked it up and ran it through her fingers. “They’re not…heartless. Congress knows father, knows you. If you explained, perhaps.”

“Patsy.” He shifted his gaze to his sister, holding back his sigh. “They appointed me special minister to France, I already said I would. I cannot turn around and not go.  You _have_ to know as well as I do that.” John sighed and ran his fingers through his hair, watching as Frances picked up one of the flowers. “I cannot do nothing. These past few months have been-”

“Papa, look!” she said excitedly, pushing the flower up so he could see. He sank down to his knees so they were at least at eye level, took it in his hands. “It’s pretty!”

“Yes, it is, isn’t it? Don’t you think so, sister?” He pointedly looked at his sister, making sure that she _knew_ it was her time to drop this, to fall quiet.

“It is.” She clenched her jaw, shook her head. “Frances, do you remember what your momma taught you, about speaking when adults are speaking?” His daughter pursed her lips, a small frown on her brows. “You forgot, didn’t you? That is alright, think of it next time. Adults don’t like being interrupted, even if your father wasn’t so considerate about what he was saying.” Before he could glare at her again, she took the flower out of his hands, examined it up close. “Why don’t we put the flower with those we brought for your momma?”

“Yes, aunt Patsy! I’m sorry.”

“Just think of it next time,” she said, throwing his daughter a small smile. “It’s okay to mess up a little and it is a beautiful flower indeed. Here, you can have it back.” She straightened up again, looked up at him. “I know you won’t sit still and in all honesty, it surprised me you stayed for such a long time without adding to the cause, but...”

“What makes this even a little different from leaving Martha?” Even if John hated admitting it, he had been the terrible parent before. “What makes this _any_ different from what I’ve done before.” He could hear the bitterness in his words.

“To you, I don’t know,” she said brisker than before, “but what I do know is that you are leaving a daughter behind that you know. A daughter who will have memories of you? John, she _knows_ you.” The silence that fell for a few seconds was almost painful. “Frances intimately spend time with a father she didn’t have for a very long time. She’s only known you for how long now, a year? A half a year?”

“Martha…”

“No. Now, you are leaving her with me, which I am not opposed to.” John, up to this day, still wondered how his sister managed to keep her tone flat, to never yell or shout. If he hadn’t known her as well as he did, he would perhaps not even have known she was angry. “I’m glad you trust her with me, thankful that you are giving me a chance with her, but you are leaving for France now only to dive headfirst back into battle when you get back.” He couldn’t hide his guilt from his sister, she knew him too well. “You are fighting for a cause, willing to _lay down your life_ for something that will not work.”

“Are you truly so pessimistic about freedom or just blind to the hypocrisy behind what they fight for?”

“No, I’m not. We both know it’s not what you fight for either. All your writings about slavery, all you’ve tried to do. You’re fighting in a climate that isn’t ready for the freeing of slaves. Look around you, look at the plantations this state alone _thrives_ on.” She swallowed. “The slavery that paid for the clothes on your back and your education, to name two.  Look around, think and tell me that anyone here would be willing what is theirs.”

“You are talking about human lives, Martha. _Lives_.” He balled his fists, fingernails digging into his palms. “Not possessions. They will _have_ to be. If I must, I will push until they’re cornered. I’m not going to give up this soon, not like this.”

“Father has attempted to support you, look at the success he has. He’s locked up in the Tower of London at the moment, or have you forgotten that? We only got you back a couple of months ago, can you give us _five minutes_ of peace before you dive headfirst into worrying everyone again.” Frances was looking at them from the corner of her eyes, her entire posture showing that she was on edge, anxious. _It_ _’_ _s not nice when adults fight_. “John, you’re the eldest. You are meant to set an example for Harry and right now, you’re setting a poor one.” She stepped forward, reached her hand out to his daughter. Frances hesitantly stepped towards her and took it, the flower clutched in the other one. “Jack, I did not mean to yell, but don’t make an orphan of your daughter. Please. That, I beg of you.”

John just stood there for a solid minute, looking as his sister walked to his wife’s grave with his daughter. He let himself imagine it, imagined how Frances would grow up with her and Polly, who was only seven years her senior. He imagined how she would learn to laugh at the same things his sisters did, how she would attend church and pray with them. Perhaps, his daughter would be stern like Patsy yet gentle and loving like Polly.

He knew many things in that moment, as he watched his sister walk next to his daughter, but most prominent of all, he knew she would be safe. With them there, she would be safe.

 

 

He pressed a gentle kiss to the top of Frances’s head the night before he’d be destined to set sail. Everything had been readied for him; within a couple of weeks, he’d be in Europe and travel to France yet again. There, he’d be put to work almost straight away, would be pulling corners the second he got there. There was a reason for him to, there was a pressure to get things worked out, to get the supplies the army needed to advance their efforts back at home.

John knew he wouldn’t get to see her for at least a couple of months, that he wouldn’t catch much of a break. So perhaps, it was why he indulged in this moment and lingered in his daughter’s room longer than needed. It had slowly become both Frances and Polly’s room; the two girls growing closer as they spend more time together.

They had been read through by either Martha or him every night, but the last few days, it more often had been Martha than him; slowly, they’d started building her routine around his sisters and not around him. He still stood on helping out and ended up helping Polly with her French and reading, while Frances learned how to count by stacking books. His sister was right in taking over some of his tasks, it would make this all a lot easier, would make it easier for her to adjust to not having him around as frequently.

He’d told her goodbye before Martha put them to bed. She hadn’t grasped it, or at least, John didn’t think she did. All she’d done was nodded, held him tight for a while and pressed an extra kiss to his cheek. She would realize when she’d wake up the next morning and he would already have left.

“Papa will miss you while he’s away,” he promised her quietly. “I’ll be back. Your aunt is worried, but I will not make you an orphan. Not as long as it’s in my power to prevent it.”

 

****

 

**MARCH 1781**

 

_L’Orient 9th March 1781 **.**_

_My dear Sister,_

_We have arrived at mainland at last. Our voyage took close to a month and was not without its adventures - which I shall not enclose to you, you might find them to be unappealing - but we finally have arrived in the far away France. At this point in time, I am waiting to move on with my travels and to arrive at my end destination, but I am withheld from that by an important contact arriving in the next few days. If I can get a chance to shorten this visit, know that I shall, even if the wait I am posed with is slowing things down._

_Yet, it has it positive sides, as being able to finally write to you, dear sister. Even if it’s been barely a month - twenty-nine days, today if my calculations aren’t off too badly - since I departed, and I would not say a lot has happened. At last, nothing worthy of telling in a letter._

_I hope life at home has been treating you all well, Patsy and that things are stable and calm at your side of the ocean. Most sincerely, I hope you are all happy, healthy and striving._

_How is my little girl doing? I most sincerely hope she settled well and that she has not been giving you too many problems. First days must have been hard, but my little Fanny is a clever little girl, I’m sure she adapted well?_

_I hope you shall find the time to extend my regards to the rest of the family and with this I mean to both Polly and Harry. Even though I have not spend a lot of time with them in the past couple of months, I admit to missing them more than before. You as well, Patsy. It shall be a joy to see you again._

_Now, on the subject of Harry and Polly, do they bode well with their niece around? Seven years does not make Polly much of Frances’s senior, perhaps this has made it easier for the two to interact. They reacted fine when I was still around, but I guess you cannot blame a father for worrying, can you?_

_Best wishes to everyone and especially to you, dear sister.I cannot stress enough how  thankful I am that you are willing to take in Frances without much ado, without even a single word. Thank you, yet again.  I owe you more than probably either of us can fathom._

_Yours,_

_John Laurens_

 

_** ** _

_L’Orient 11th March 1781._

_My Dear Hamilton_

_If you have not heard any news from my sister or South Carolina, I’m writing to inform you that I have arrived in France. After a passage of twenty-eight days - one I do not wish to speak a lot of - it was dreary and long, I have arrived at a temporary stop along the way to Paris. I have arrived safely and timely, the voyage luckily not delayed much by winds or terrible weather. My final destination has yet to be reached, but the promise of information that ended up being postponed kept me here._

_Thus, giving me the chance of writing your Eliza and you of what his happening in the far France. Not much, this much I can enclose you._

_Only so much time has passed since my arrival here and I have spent the past days waiting on a man that has been delayed further than I can wait for him. We shall meet later, at a more timely time._

_France has not been much adapting nor challenging to me. Yet, a difficulty has arisen and in a way, we ourselves predicted it would, Alexander. When I arrived and even now, my French has been terrible and stiff, putting the years of my mastery of the language to shame. I do not joke around, c’est vraiement terrible dans (or is it à? I fail to remember the correct form) ce moment. 1_

_Perhaps, in a few weeks, my tongue shall form the rises and falls of the beautiful language more naturally, shall allow for the unique words and accepts it brings with. As long as  I do not find the accents in my English upon my return, you can count me a happy man._

_For now, I am the very obvious foreigner. I suppose that is alright._

_I uttermost hope you, Eliza and Philip are all doing well and life has continued to treat you well. Of the care that is put in you, I have no doubts, Alexander. So much has been shown and extended to me in my weeks at your house._

_Wish my best wishes to Eliza, if you would. Let her read this letter, as it pertains her as well, since I wish to tell her and thank her for her allowing me into your house, for being so appreciative and welcoming. For her patience. Thank her (or you, Eliza, should Alexander hand you this letter) for the friendship and warmth, both to my daughter and I. Thank you._

_As to not to bore you too much, I shall finish my letter as you are and always have been a busy man, one that I shall not disturb more than is needed._

_Best wishes,_

_John Laurens_

  _ ****_

**JULY 1781**

_Versailles  28th July 1781._

_My Dear Hamilton_

_Time has forbidden me to read your last two letters after their arrival, my apologies. Life has been busy as the preparations are made for me to set sail back to America in the following days. I have however finally found some time to address your last letter._

 

_Washington’s refusal to allow you into active combat is one I approve of, Alexander. I hope you did not write to me under the impression that I would say I side with you. My sentiments, my dear friend, prevent me from that. Much in a way Eliza could not bear to see you off, I cannot either. In fact, Alexander, I can tell you much the same things my sister chastised me for before boarding this ship. But perhaps, let me say to you some of the things you said to me, even if this is a different matter._

_When I asked you if tearing my wife and Fanny apart from her family in London, you pressed that a child is always best of with their parents. That I’d made the right choice. You told me you’d grown up for much of the time without a father and knew this was not beneficial for a child._

_While I do not wish to think in negatives, Alexander, there is no denying you could not perish in battle. While being abandoned and having a father who gave his life for a country are very different ways to lose a father, it still takes much away from him. Suis sensible. Does it not confine him to the same fate, growing up without a father? Active duty could leave your wife a widow at the early age of twenty-four, would leave your son without a father. Are you aware he shall not have memories of you? Barely a babe, he has not the chance of remembering you or of making memories with his father._

_Please, all I ask of you at this point is to keep your family in thought._

_._

_I will talk to you when I arrive back in America, about the other things you mentioned. They are better handled in person. I can, however, say that yes, I do indeed have grown to miss everything more and more. I long to be back on American soil now my mission is done and most of my points are made._

_These trips never burdened me, because I knew they had reason and resolve, yet now I know what there is to miss at home, they seem to last longer. Ma famille me manque, mes amis. Apres six mois, je désir d’ être réunis avec ceux qui j’aime. Avec ma famille, avec toi et ton Eliza. 2_

_I will see you soon, Alexander. Just one more month._

_With love,_

_your affectionate Laurens_

 

 

_****_

 

_** ** _

 

**AUGUST 1781**

 

In his twenty-six years, John didn't think that anything had ever felt as good as holding his daughter close to his chest. They had been separated before, had been apart for longer than this and yet, having the chance to get to know her had changed things. In just six months, he'd grown to miss her quite badly. Now, she was clinging to him yet again, face pressed against his shoulder and crying in his shirt.  _This was home_. He was home yet again.

He didn't know how long he stood there, with Fanny clinging to him like a monkey and his sister with a reassuring hand on his other shoulder. What he did know that by the time she finally stopped her tears - which he only hoped were of joy - her eyes were red-rimmed, but she was smiling. Perhaps, that was enough. If not for always, then it had to be for now. John hadn't even realized he was muttering softly against the top of her head until she'd moved away.

"Bonjour papa," she whispered, looking up at him from her clearly comfortable spot on his hip. "Welcome back!"

“I’ve missed you, darling,” he promised her quietly. “Did you aunt Patsy and aunt Polly treat you well? Look at much you’ve grown." She had, he could feel how she was heavier to hold in his arms, how she was somehow so much more mature than before. When he put her back to the ground and really took her in, he could see she now reached his sister's hip. How she was glowing, how healthy she looked in general. "You don't look like my baby girl anymore, do you?"

"I'm still little," she promised.

"Oh, I know. You're so much like your mother now, you know that? Same, beautiful hair." John had always appreciated the way Martha's hair fell down in curls. There had been a few instances in which he'd seen her get dressed, seen her twist up those curls in updo's and each time, he'd thought she looked more beautiful with her hair down. "How have you been, both of you?"

"Good," Martha promised before stepping close and giving him a quick hug of her own. "The first few days were rough, as I told you Jack, but we've all been well. She hasn't been sick once, have you, Fanny?"

"Not once!" She was smiling now, wider than before. "Polly helped me with French and making sentences!" She sounded so proud, so happy. it was hard not to feel that affectionate tug in his chest. "Counting has well. I have twenty-four books in my room, papa."

"Do you now, that's good. How about you tell me the rest on the way home?"

"Okay," she said before taking his hand and pulling him along. "Alexander came by for my birthday!" This caught John off guard, even if it was just a little. Alexander had not been by when he'd left and he'd thought it unlikely he would afterward. "Brought me this dress. Isn't it pretty papa?"

"It is," he admitted, helping his daughter into the carriage which had been waiting for them not far from where they'd been waiting. His sister must have noticed the way his eyes flicked over to her in confusion because she elaborated.

"They came by three days after you left and seemed sorry to have missed you. Did you not inform them of when you were leaving?" she asked. "However, they stayed for a little while and brought a generous gift for Frances. It was very...considerate of them." She seemed to ponder for a moment before speaking again. "They're the people you stayed with, am I right?"

"They were," he admitted, "and I'm afraid I forgot to inform them of when I was leaving. I just said early February, they must have taken it for another date. I'm glad you welcomed them regardless." Alexander had not mentioned it to him in a letter, so he assumed he did not think it important. 

"Of course, they're friends of yours anyway," she added, "and Fanny seemed to be glad to see them and the baby they brought with them. It makes for an adorable sight, that I have to admit." His sister threw Frances a small smile. "Though I admit to wondering something, brother. I assume it's because she spend quite some time with her, but why does she call her her aunt and him her uncle? I overheard them while she was showing them something. Did I hear wrong or?"

"She did, indeed," he admitted, almost sheepishly. "Eliza helped greatly in the care of Frances the first few weeks. They bonded. Once she asked if she could call her that and Eliza agreed." He shrugged and hoped it was casual enough. "I've tried to have her be quieter about this, but she...appreciates them."

“Alright. I’m glad you’re home, brother, for as long as you will be here. Do you know when you’ll branch out again?”

“Soon.” It was no lie. He would be going to Yorktown to assist Alexander and the rest of the troops, after Yorktown, he had absolutely no clue where he would be off to. It was likely he would be able to  go back to his home state, pick up the fighting there. He knew he would prefer doing that. "You knew that, Martha."

"Yes, I do." Something about her expression told him that while she knew, she wasn't happy about it in the slightest. "Let's just go home. You must be tired."

John disliked admitting it, but the journey had tired him out more than anticipated. "Perhaps, thank you, Martha. For taking care of her."

"Of course. You're my brother with reason." She shook her head as Frances settled herself against his side. "It seems you're not the only one who is tired. I cannot say I blame her - Polly said she didn't sleep a lot last night."

"Anxious to see her father return, I hope." He stroked some of the hair out of her face. "I cannot say I mind however, I must admit to missing this." John had to be honest, he did not look forward to leaving again, even if he needed to. It was all he could do to make an effort, even if it was the smallest. He knew he could not make a big difference in Yorktown or, quite possibly, in future battles, but at least they had one extra man. They had one extra person to serve as a distraction, who could attempt and bring them to peace.

 

 

 _** ** _  

**OCTOBER 1781 TO AUGUST 1782**

 

Some nights, John still woke up feeling like blood clung to his skin. He could taste it in his mouth and smell it in the air. Once more, he woke up with tremors and sweats, woke up with blood pounding through his veins faster than it did while he was in battle. Going back into fighting itself had not settled with his seemingly fragile mental health. It left him anxious, on the edge. Yorktown had in many ways been the same as previous gunfights he had been in as well, even if it was a turning point. The victory was almost certain, they knew it. It had lifted the spirits of his soldiers, who too were growing tired and weary.

In Yorktown, John had fought and been acutely aware that he had many friends on the battlefield, that there was a very good chance some of these friends would perish on the field. Perhaps that was why it set him on edge for the entirety of the battle. It had promised him there would soon be an end to the fighting and that they'd have a chance of being free. But winning at Yorktown did not equal freedom in all states.

This was mainly why he - to great dislike of both his daughter and his sister - did not return home, return to rest. He stayed on his feet, falling under the command of Nathanael Greene in his home state. John kept working unless he was forced by illness or wound to cease.

If his men noticed the growing unease or his... lack of patience and tact, they didn't comment on it and perhaps that was best.  Neither did his fellow officers unless it was too clear in the alcohol he consumed after a particular wound they needed to bandage.

George Washington's dislike for alcohol had been clear in every mention of it, yet John couldn't let it stop him from drinking perhaps a bit too much on some nights. On nights he knew there would be no consequences for it in the days following. His fellow officers sometimes voiced their dislike of it, of how he was going overboard and some of these days, he became snappish and crude. They soon stopped.

 

 

 

No matter how he wanted to see things, days grew into weeks and weeks into months and time kept progressing. Even if John would prefer it if the world would just stop spinning. Fighting morphed into more battles and perhaps a growing longing to have everything over with. Some nights, he found the all too familiar feelings return, like those he'd felt after the siege of Savannah.

He remembered writing the feeling down in a letter to Peter Horry, telling him ' _my life is a burden to me; I would God I was lying on yonder field at rest with my poor men'_ and never had he thought his own words to be truer than those. Even now, as he thought of the casualties and people who perished to give them a shot at a different life, he felt it. It was _their_  blood he saw in his dreams, reddening the streams and mud they walked in.

And now, he couldn't keep the notice out of his letters to Alexander. He had noticed the shift in tone, how each one seemed to convey what he wanted to hide more and more. These feels, this recklessness and in a way, readiness to greet death was not something someone dealt with, someone was ought to feel in the first place.

No matter how much he attempted to push the feelings down however, he couldn't keep them out of his writing. Worst of it all, Alexander noticed it when his sister didn't. To his words, to his asking of Alex to _please_  not stop writing. Perhaps, July was worst for him. Perhaps, it was the month he felt worst. 

 _'I wish the garrison would either withdraw or fight us. Adieu, my dear friend; while circumstances place so great a distance between us_   _entreat you not to withdraw the consolation of your letters. You know the unalterable sentiments of your affectionate Laurens'._

The letter had been a bridge crossed he shouldn't have. If anyone would have read it outside of Alexander and Eliza, he knew they'd be skeptical. These were not words of a friend or of someone concerned. John knew that, yet he could not stop himself from writing them. He was simply too worn, missed the company of a lover. Perhaps, this was dangerous, perhaps this could leave a mark on his family's legacy. There were so many possibilities, too many.

Yet, there had been the _yrs forever,_ there had been the flirtatious tone in the past. Things were not in the slightest more dangerous than they had been before. 

 

When John pulled himself out of his sickbed first to write the letter to general Greene and later to march with his men. He doubted the colonel would have allowed him to do so if he had not threatened becoming a volonteer and go regardless of what he wanted. His illness was no worse than a fever, he couldn't let it keep him in bed. Perhaps it was playing with matches in a way, letting the fire lick at the wood until he burned his fingers, but burning himself was a chance he was more than willing to pay. This could end badly and he did not care.

It was that stubbornness, that will to prove himself that perhaps landed both him and his men near to death, in a situation he could not handle. John knew, when he send his men onto the field without waiting for the reinforcements they so desperately needed. They were vastly outnumbered and outmanned, yet John did not let it stop them. His pride prevented him from being the coward in the situation and retreating. No, he rode as first of his batallion, his men - anxious and worried - behind him.

Not once had he considered the fact that his pride could one day be the death of them all and yet, it almost was. Many of his men died that day, let their lives at the hands of the British army. He too, almost did. John got lucky first time around, the bullet merely grazing his skin. It let a nasty wound that he could see getting inflamed in no time, yet he did not worry, rode forward with his head held high. The second bullet got him in the leg, got him by enough surprise that he fell of his horse, the poor creature fleeing from the scene now his rider was of.

John was not conscious when his men retreated, nor was he when they finally carried him off the field. After falling to the mud, he was greeted by a world of black, a world he hoped would lead to the death he had so silently longed for.

 

_** ** _

 

_South Carolina, 29th of August 1782_

_Alexander Hamilton,_

_On Tuesday the 27th of August, John was shot twice in a gunfight against British troops. They were retreating from South Carolina, but they charged anyway - from what we've been able to gather, they did not yet know of the latest developments. He is lucky to sill be alive on this day, though his situation is grave. They only managed to get him off the battlefield after an hour had passed. The doctor is speaking of a miracle that he still lives to see this day._

_At the hour I write you this, the doctor cannot tell anything about if he'll survive. He is still alive today and according to him, it should be taken as a sign that he is at least fighting. The bullets have been removed, but due to the fact that one of them was dangerously close to major muscles in his leg, nothing can be made certain of how his future will be._

_In his idle state, he's talked very little and been conscious very little, yet he asked for your company. It's because we know of the close connection he has to both you and your wife that I am writing to you to inform you. If you wish to see him alive, while it pains me to say this, the chances are getting smaller and smaller each day as the wound in his leg grows more and more inflamed._

_Please, if you see it possible, you are welcome at our house. If you would allow my brother this, our family would be eternally greatful. While this is indulgent of me, sir, it is not just for him. If you would come for his daughter as well. Last time you were here, you lifted her burdens of missing her father. The poor girl has been inconsolable at her father's grieve now she is old enough to understand she might well be orphaned if this ends badly._

_I hope to be able to greet you soon._

_Kind regards,_

_Martha Laurens_

 

1 "C’est vraiement terrible dans (or is it à? I fail to remember the correct form) ce moment" = It is truly terrible at this moment. [ _note;_ as was kindly pointed out to me, the correct form of this sentence is in fact <b>en ce moment</b>. Since he is saying how his French really isn't up to par, I thought it was fitting to leave my mistake in as his - as was already meant with the 'or is it à, I fail to remember the correct form'.]

2 "Ma famille me manque, mes amis. Apres six mois, je désir d’ être réunis avec ceux qui j’aime. Avec ma famille, avec toi et ton Eliza." = I miss my family, my friends. After six months, I long to be reunited with those which I love. With my family, with you and your Eliza. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I promised you historical notes and to which extends this fic is accurate (which is questionable) - something I'd like to point out for anyone who should be interested in what actually went down - here they are;  
> 
> 
> * Philip was born in 1782 and _not_ in 1781, as I have written thus far. I don't know what made me mess up the timeline, but I hope you don't mind me going with the flow and making him one year older.  
> 
> * John Laurens and his wife never saw each other again after John sailed back to America in December 1776. (so he, in fact, never laid eyes upon his daughter) There were a lot of factors involved - Martha and Frances's poor health right after her birth, the war between America and England most prominent - in them not making the trip over. It is likely John would have brought his daughter over after Martha's death in (November) 1781, but his passing in August of 1782 prevented him from doing so. [She got raised by Patsy // Martha Ramsey Laurens and her husband David Ramsey, as is partially happening in this fic.]
>   
> 
> * John Laurens never actively told Alexander that he was either married to Martha or a father to Laurens. While it seems that Alexander did find out through talk, he certainly never knew neither them nor of them to the extent that is written in this fic.  
> [I will add to this list at a later time.]
>   
> 
> * 


	5. This scarred young heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
> **ACT I:** _'You have married an Icarus'_
> 
> Chapter IV: 'This scarred young heart'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings for this chapter;** some suicidal thoughts (John), wishing he'd never woken up, talk of wounds and healing. Talk of death (of John's men), grief.

_When I thought that I fought without a cause_

_You gave me a reason to try_

_Turn the page I need to see something new_

_For now my innocence is torn_

_We cannot linger on this stunted view_

_Like rabid dogs of war_

**WAR // POETS OF THE FALL**

 

** **

The heat in the carriage hadn't ceased to rise since they'd left that morning and it was affecting them all. Eliza wished she could do more about it, that she had a way to comfort their squirming son or at least cool him down,  but there was no way.

Philip was bothered most of all of them. He'd been sitting in her lap with his head buried against her chest for the past hour or so, chewing on his fingers and fighting the sleep he hadn't gotten the previous day. Each time his eyelids fluttered close, he got no more than two or three minutes in before he awoke again. They’d been on the road for too long, but at least there was a spark of hope now; they were almost there. It was that she used as a consolation while she gently rocked Philip on her lap, singing softly.

“It’s alright,” she promised him gently, “you’ll get a real bed soon.” She only hoped the soon could be a promise, that it could come before he started whimpering again and he'd be inconsolable. He hated being restricted in his movement, hated the heat and had no way but to use that build up frustiation to cry and squirm.

They’d been on their way for a couple of hours now and Alexander had promised her they were within a half an hour of their residence. Just another half an hour and they could put him to bed, they could hopefully make him smile. It would be cooler inside, she’d be able to offer him something colder to drink.

“Ma-ma,” he mumbled, hiding against her again. “Mama.” Alexander had already helped her with ridding their son from his shirt so he wouldn’t be so hot, but it wasn’t helping much in the August heat. His hair was sticky with sweat and his skin too warm against hers.

“Mommy knows,” she whispered, turning soothing circles on his back. His hand clutched at the fabric of her dress, fingers twining ad untwining almost rhythmically. “Mommy knows. Go back to sleep love.” He wouldn’t, of course. Philip was too much like his father already, already accustomed to not falling asleep until well in the night. Especially now the heat was starting to pack, it was difficult getting him to doze off even for a few hours.

On more than one occasion, Alexander had put him to bed with how late it had grown. She had been exhausted and worn, too tired with his constant crying. Alexander had put him to bed then come to bed himself when the sun was already starting its ascent into the sky again.

Perhaps this had been what she’d worried about during the nights she lay awake with him kicking her ribs and moving inside of her. He could be too much like Alexander, too much of an insomniac, too hard working. Eliza barely remembered those days now, barely remembered both the worry and jealousy she’d felt. Some of it had stuck around. The days in which she could barely walk because her feet were swollen and her back was slowly making attempts to end her.

“We’ll be there soon,” Alexander promised, pulling her out of her thoughts for just a little while, “he’ll be able to sleep there.”

“I know.” She brushed her fingers through his hair. “When the temperatures drop, he will be fine.” He would be. “I’m just worried, is all.” Worried about more than just Philip. Worried about John as well, about her husband and what he would do if he’d disappear from his life in such an abrupt manner. “We’ll be fine soon enough. We all will be.”

Eliza was tolerant of John, appreciated his presence and the talks they had. She dared say they'd somehow made a friendship, along the way. Part of her couldn't help but feel that it was wrong. What they were doing - if that happened, part of her had been scared to ask - was forbidden by law. It would render him an outcast, could mean his - if not literal then social - death.

Yet, she saw her husband and the way he cared and worried about him, in much the same way as he did with Philip, as he did with her. She saw how much affection there was in the gazes they exchanged, recognized the gentle touches as the ones he shared with her. _How could that be wrong?_

She’d been the advocate of their love to Martha now two years ago and now, she was in the same spot that John’s wife had been. Doubting, confused yet tolerant. Eliza wanted her husband to be happy, wanted him to be in good spirits and if having both of them in his life made him feel comfortable, she’d allow it.

Eliza just wondered how far they would go and more specifically, how far _she_ would go in it. She didn’t know how flexible her morals were, how far she could stretch and still feel her, still be true to herself.

It was so easy to get lost in thoughts sometimes. Especially when looking at their son, at the way he was clinging to her. He reminded her of her husband and her husband, well, Alexander brought the rest of it with.

“See Phil?” she asked with a small smile on her lips as the house became visible in the background. “There’s the house. We’ll be there in just a minute.”

 

The house was familiar; yet had a completely different feeling to it now. Last time Alexander had been here, he remembered John’s youngest sister sitting outside, how comfortable it had all felt. Fanny had been smiling, laughing and running, even _with_ her father having just left for France. Mary Eleanor had braided her hair and made her a little bracelet from flowers, which she’d proudly shown them. To Alexander, it had been endearing, to see them play together and remember Mary Eleanor was John’s sister, that she was her niece. Now, it reminded him of the way Philip and Kitty — Angelica’s children played with Catherine, his wife’s youngest sister or the way that their Philip did as well. If there was anything to win his affections, it was that.

This time, it was different. Alexander felt the difference in atmosphere the exact moment Martha walked through the open door, Frances walking closely next to her. She was practically clinging to her aunt, like a shadow. Only when she saw them, did she take a hesitant step towards them and started walking, encouraged when John’s sister nodded at her.

Alexander had always been aware of who Frances preferred — it had been clear it was the two of them who bounded most. He was glad to see that still counted, that she still immediately walked over to his wife and wrapped her arms around her. Eliza pulled her in a little tighter.

“Thank you for coming,” Martha told him with a nod, her eyes sliding over to her niece and his wife. They were talking quietly, barely loud enough for Alexander to make out words like _‘he’ll be okay’_ and _‘it’s good to see you too Frances_ ’. “The past few days have been long. It’ll do good to…” She trailed off, her words no longer mattering to her. “For everyone, the distraction will help. Especially Frances.”

“I can imagine.” If there was one thing he knew, it was uncertainty, doubt. Not knowing what would happen, how to pull through. She didn’t have to say it for him to hear it in her voice. Alexander perhaps knew it better than most people thought or were aware of how deep the knife of not knowing what was ahead could cut. “How is he?” After all, John reason they had come.

“John’s barely hanging on.” He noticed how she lowered her voice, careful not to let the words be overheard. She almost spoke automatically, as if she’d grown numb to them. “The doctor is doing everything he can, but there is only so much they _can_ do. He lost so much blood they weren’t keen on most of the usual procedures. The heat isn’t helping the infection or fever subside either.” She shook her head. “At this point, there is no way for us to tell how much of his fever is his and not just an effect of the heat. We’ve been praying.”

“Is there hope?” At the time she’d written the letter, there had seemed to be little hope. Just her words had seemed weighed down with the lack of it. ‘ _If you wish to see him alive, while it pains me to say this, the chances are getting smaller and smaller each day as the wound in his leg grows more and more inflamed.’_ In the few days it had taken them to get there, things could have improved, even with the heat. He hoped it, with all of his heart. “What does the doctor think of it?”

“He has hope now.” There was a faint shout from inside of the house and her figure went still. “We do too, there _has_ been improvement, just not to enough. Like I said, we’re praying and hoping.” She fell silent. “It’s all we can do. Please, come in on. I’ll have your stuff be brought upstairs.”

Frances took Eliza by the hand and lead her in, leaving the two of them to follow. He shook his head, hiding the smile that crept on his face as he saw his wife and Fanny walking side by side, Fanny clutching her hand tightly.

“Are you coming?” she asked quietly, looking back. “Papa needs you.”

“Of course.”

 

 

John’s breathing was shallow, his hands and fingers twitching above the thin blanket they’d pulled over him. His sleep seemed restless, but knowing that it in fact _was_ sleep and no unconsciousness outside of his control felt almost like a relief.

Martha had said he’d had his first completely lucid day just the day before, that he had woken up and talked to them, even if it as no more than a few minutes at a time before he started drifting off again. She’d said he’d been in clear pain and had asked for something _anything_ to dull it, but he’d accepted it when they said they wouldn’t give him any more. At least Frances had been able to talk to him for a while and hold her father, hug him. However small of a consolation that was.

“I don’t know when he’ll be back around,” a quiet voice said from John’s bedside as they entered the room. “Jack just — oh, hello. He just fell back asleep.” The man couldn’t be anyone but John’s brother — they shared too many similarities, the same expression, same posture even if Henry Jr. didn’t share his slouch to the left, John’s good side or some of the composure John always made sure to keep. “Henry Jr. I don’t think we’ve met.”

“Alexander Hamilton.” He offered his hand, which he shook. “We haven’t.” So this had to be his youngest surviving brother, the one who was there when James had fallen. He didn’t know why that particular tidbit of information came up now. Henry Jr. made his way to leave, stopping at the door of the room to throw his brother one more glance.

“You picked a good day to arrive, he is looking better today, even if it’s just a little.” He too sounded tired, like Martha had done when she greeted them. Alexander was glad he hadn’t seen John on his worse days, if they considered this to be a good one. He still looked horrible. “He was off pretty badly last few days. I - I’ll leave you with him.”

“One moment,” Martha muttered before slipping out of the door after her brother. They could hear her speak quietly, but he was not familiar enough with her to understand what they were saying — they spoke in the typical way siblings did, faster and incomprehensible, with unfinished sentences. It was something he often envied in Eliza and her siblings, but especially in Angelica, Peggy and Eliza. Together, the sisters were a force of nature. Angelica and Peggy had not said it with so many words, but he knew they’d protect their sister. Apparently, Martha and Henry Jr. shared something similar between them.

In that moment, he felt incredibly awkward, standing there not knowing where to turn or what to do. So, he just stood as Frances walked towards her father, pressed a kiss to his hand and sat down on the chair next to the bed.

“Hi papa. You have visitors, they came all this way.”

“I’m sorry it took a while. I told my brother to go sleep — we have all been a little strung out these past days. You can probably understand - ever since the doctor recommended for there to be someone with him at all times, things have been…” Martha said as she walked back in, trailing off midway through her sentence. “Sit down, please. John likes it when he can see people when he comes back around.” She pointed at the chairs, the empty side of the bed. “If you want, that is.”

“Can we maybe put him to bed?” Eliza asked, shifting Philip in her arms. He’d fallen asleep against her shoulder, his hand still clutched in the fabric of her dress. “He hasn’t slept a lot in the past few days, with this heat. I don't mean to be a bother, but-”

“Oh, no. Of course, I’ll bring you to Frances’s room. He can sleep there.” Martha waited for her at the door. “If you will follow me, please. This house can be tricky to navigate.” His wife followed her, throwing him a small encouraging smile before leaving.

“Papa has been asking about you,” Frances said from where she was sitting next to her father, “when he’s been asleep.” He didn’t quite know what to do with that information. “I think he’s missed you.”

“If he did, he's not the only one. Everyone has missed him.” He shook his head. “I’m sure your father had you on his mind a lot as well.”

“He did,” she admitted, with a small smile on her lips. “I’m worried for him, uncle Alexander.” Alexander couldn’t say anything to comfort her. She had right to be worried about her father. He was not off well, not in the slightest. From what Martha had told him, there had been a fine line between death and living for a good long while. It wasn’t something that anyone could easily shake, especially not a child. Frances must have seen him like that, crying out in pain, unconscious. He'd seen his mother in so much pain -- dying all those years ago and he still sometimes dreamt of her. He'd been older than her.

“Don’t worry too much,” he said gently, hoping to reassure her. “If there is anyone who is... stubborn enough to pull through something like this, it is your father.” John had proven that. He’d proven that on that early morning now years ago, when he’d stood barrel to barrel with Charles Lee. When he rode into battle and got hurt so often. “I fought next to him, it’s a miracle he is still here today and I don’t think your father has ran out of miracles just yet.”

“Are you worried about him?” _Was he?_ Of course he was. Every scenario imaginable had flashed through his mind since they’d left, since he’d read the letter. Without Eliza’s reassurances and her distracting him, he didn’t know if he’d be even a sliver like this; he would be a mess, nervous and worrying, unable to sit still. Alexander had gotten good at keeping his composure around other people, knew to carry it like a mask. Yet, with the arrival of that letter, the mask had cracked.

“Yes, I am,” he admitted, “but I also know your father, like I said. If anyone will pull through, it’s him.” Being worried was a good thing, even if he started to doubt it after years of experiencing hurt and loss first hand. “Your father is stronger than perhaps even he thinks.” Except that John thought he was invincible, that bullets couldn’t hurt him and this proved it. _Swallow your words, Alexander, Frances is nothing with your bitterness._

“Thank you,” she said silently. He couldn’t help throwing her a small smile. “You’ll be okay papa.”

 

Early that evening, John woke up in a stable enough condition to talk for a little bit. He was groggy and sleepy and with the way he clenched his teeth and pressed his eyes shut more than once, it was clear that he was still in a lot of pain, but he was trying. If that trying wasn't a sign of his stubbornness, Alexander did not know what was. More than once, he tried to sit up in the bed, tried to move the leg and ended up hissing before slumping back into his pillow, face significantly more drawn each time.

There were so many questions Alexander wanted to ask him, so many things that made no sense to him. Questions that needed an answer. _Why didn’t you wait? Did you know how outmanned you were? Do you know how many of your men died? Were you really so reckless you almost orphaned your daughter? Was it worth this?_

Alexander and Henry Jr. had talked for a little while earlier, after he too had awoken from a short nap. It was him who told him of how things had went down, informed him that many of John’s men had perished and the rest were returned to their owners. They had attacked when they shouldn’t have — when they were vastly outnumbered, they had no choice but to meet their early death. John had led it, insisted on riding out. He'd been sick, advised to stay in bed. John had threatened to go as a volunteer if that was what they wanted him to.

What made Alexander furious was the reason he’d almost died. To fight for ideals that while they were noble were not in the slightest realistic. He had refused to bury the battle axe and in return, had almost been the one to be buried. As Henry Jr. had said to him, John would not even have been on the battlefield had he not been so stubborn, so reckless.

 _“I should not say this, but you seem a good friend to him, to the entirety of_ his _family. The first words he said were that he wished he hadn’t woken up.”_   The almost pain in his words has been so clear that Alexander flinched at it — both at the intensity and the actual words that were spoken. _“He is not doing well. He didn’t go into further detail but, we don’t know war. We have not seen the blood and violence the way he has.”_  The silence that had fallen after this was enough to prompt the younger Laurens to continue speaking. “ _If I am not mistaken, you have. Please, if you care about our brother — consider attempting to help.”_

In all honestly, he didn’t know how to help, didn’t know if he could. What he did know was that he could try. That, he promised him. Now Alexander just hoped he could.

 

** **

 

September dawned on them sooner than expected, the days seeming to drift by faster. Slowly, things started looking up; Alexander and John got to _actually_ talk, Eliza had a chance to _breathe_ and enjoy the calm while spending time with Frances, Martha and Mary Eleanor. She had a chance to write to her sisters, to read the letter that Angelica had sent her now a few days ago. Hearing that they were all doing well in Paris was more than a reassurance. 

Perhaps, it was good for the Laurens family as well. They had extra hands around, didn't have to sit up with their brother for hours upon hours. Eliza was not familiar enough with them to notice the change, but she _thought_  she saw Martha relax, be a little bit less uptight.

Slowly but surely, colour started to return to John’s face. The wounds had shown bright against his skin before, but now they looked faded, blended in better. The infection started to make its retreat and with the heat outside finally ceasing, he was noticeably doing better. Still not up throughout the entire day, but working up to it.

It was these days that he heard of his regiment, of the passing of so many of the men he used to call his. He was almost more worried about their well-being than his own, fretted about the people he left behind, the people _they_ left behind. She heard her husband and him speak that third of September, words hushed and quiet – intimate. Even if Eliza didn’t understand many of the words they spoke, it was clear in their tone. _I inflicted more harm than anything – how can I ever face their relatives? How can (...) I know, Alexander, but (...) can I send them letters if…_

It was no conversation for her or John’s daughter – who had been lurking at the door – to overhear. John’s grieve and sadness — at least, Eliza thought it was sadness she heard in his voice — wasn’t something to listen in on. If he wanted to elaborate and share, he would. She highly doubted he _would_ do it. John’s biggest downfall was that pride.

She took Frances by the hand and lead her downstairs, not missing the worried eyes she threw back at the door.

“I thought your aunt Martha had taught you better than to listen in on people,” she said as they walked, making sure she was not lingering.

“She has,” Frances admitted, “but papa worries me.” Her eyes fell towards the steps they were walking down. “I’m sorry.” She shook her head. “But what about you, aunt Eliza? Didn’t your momma teach you too?”

Eliza couldn’t help but laugh at that. She was clever at that — of course, if she had to be called out, it had to be by a seven-year-old girl. She was right however - she _had_ been listening as well. “Oh, my momma taught me.” Oh her mother _had_ taught her, and taught her well, but there was something about having eight siblings to grow up with and a lot of hushed conversations that had changed her views on that rule a little bit. “I grew up with eight siblings, it puts those rules in perspective.”

 

Frances tentatively sat down next to her when Eliza sat down by the piano, her fingers lingering across the keys. The keys sounded so beautiful in these rooms, the piano itself tuned instead of just that little bit off, like theirs. She’d played the night before, with Alexander sitting close to her, smiling. He’d put a hand at her shoulder, pressed a kiss to the top of her head and said he’d go to bed — she’d promised to join him soon. It had almost felt like an alternate world, where she was up and Alexander already asleep. It was a good alternative, one she greatly approved of. When she’d gone up, she’d found him with Philip curled next to him, clutching at the fabric of his shirt. Momentary, she’d fallen in love with both of them all over again, her heart swelling.

She found Frances staring at her hands, so she slowed down and asked if she wanted her to show how to play. She’d nodded and together, they played. Frances mirroring the placement of her fingers almost with ease after just a few times of running it through. It was a simple song, had been the first song that Angelica and her had learned, sitting side by side on the piano with her mother directing them.

“Papa says my momma could play very well,” Frances said quietly, fingers ghosting over the keys. “He never lies.” _Perhaps not to her_. “Aunt Patsy said that maybe, I could learn too, become as good as momma was. It would make him proud.”

“I never got the chance to hear your mother play,” she admitted, “but I heard you loved to hear her play as a baby.” John had visited them, before Martha had settled, when she was still healing. Eliza remembered how he couldn’t stay silent, how he kept talking about his Martha and his Frances some days. It hadn’t even been that he _meant_ to do it; she had often caught him doing a double take or suddenly realizing he was talking of them again. This little bit of information had been one of them. “Said you’d run up to your momma and climb on her lap each time. Your papa said you always loved to hear her sing as well – it would put you right to sleep.”

“I can’t remember.” She shook her head, fingers sliding away from the keys and to the hem of her sleeves. “I don’t remember momma, not much anyway.” She shook her head, biting her lip. “Her smell or the way her voice sounded, she felt when hugging — it’s all gone.”

“You were so young when she died.” She had been too young, too dependent on her. Eliza had no doubt in her mind this would cause problems at one point. Yet, Alexander had lost his mother early on in his life as well and gone through more. He’d come out of it fine.

 _Had he, though?_ Her husband didn’t lack caring or gentleness with the ones he loved, but was always poised; as if he was ready to move on, ready to fight for what he thought he earned. As if he had difficulty getting attached to people too tightly, as if he was scared he’d start caring too much. Was that as healthy as it should be? “Forgetting is okay, it happens.”

“I miss her.” Her words were quiet. “I miss knowing her.”

“Is that why you still wear her scarves?” She’d wondered why she had been wearing the by now beat up scarves she’d clutched to her chest when they’d stayed at their house right after Martha had passed. “Because they comfort you?” Frances just nodded. “You know, Frances.”

“Please call me Fanny too, aunt Eliza.”

“It’s a family thing,” she said, shaking her head. “We’ll get you a nickname of your own.”

“You’re family,” Frances pressed, “you are to papa, you are to me.”

“Okay. I will. You know what, Fanny –“ The word felt weird in her mouth. ‘She’d be so proud to see you today.” Eliza started the tune again, repeating it slowly so Frances could catch on. “She already was. Always has been. Just like your papa. You don’t have to make him proud by playing the piano well, even if he will not say it out loud, he is very proud of you.”

She had leaned her head into Eliza’s shoulder for a minute, before Martha came in and asked if they would like to join them for church. Alexander had asked if he could be excused, to stay with John and John’s sister had not seemed to be bothered by it in the slightest.

 

 

 

Eliza sat with Philip sleeping in her lap, his head resting against the crook of her elbow. Even if it was a little bit uncomfortable, the way he was lying and cutting off some of the circulation in her arm, it was a comfort as well. Her husband had offered to keep Philip with him and John, so she wouldn’t have to keep an eye on him and they didn’t risk having him cry in the middle of the service, but Eliza hadn’t wanted to.

It was a comfort, having her son with her, feeling his heart beating against her skin. On any given day, the Laurens household was a busy family. In the four days they’d been there, there had always been people running around, chores to be done, which was good. Good because it meant there was always someone to look out for the kids they could see in their immediate environment. What it also meant was that now, now most people were with her at the church, the house would feel empty.

She’d always been a security zone for Philip. He went exploring and crawling and walking around on his chubby little legs, but needed her or Alexander — mostly her — to return to. She didn’t want him to get scared, to fall or get hurt and come looking for her when she was not there.

Perhaps there was a selfish reason as well, because of the way her son calmed her down and kept her collected. Eliza didn’t want to go in to that too deep.

Next to her, Frances sat with her head bowed, lips moving without making a single sound. She almost folded up into herself, eyes fixed firmly on the people in front of her as her lips formed the words to a prayer only she could understand. _How was this the same Frances they’d seen just a year and a half ago?_ It wasn’t the first time the thought had crossed her mind. During the past few days, she had noticed the changes she’d gone through. They had known her as a happy child, who ran and played and sometimes, she had to admit that, toed the line of what was right and what was wrong in the eyes of many. Now, she was quieter, calmer. She thought more before she spoke and cared more about rules.

It wasn’t a bad change, Eliza just wondered what had prompted it, if it was merely growing up or if it was perhaps a combination of growing up with Martha and without her parents.

She supposed she would never know.

 

  ****

John’s world was predominantly pain. It had been, for the last few weeks. _Had it been weeks, however?_ It seemed to be forever, when the pain was high and he kept drifting in and out of consciousness. Just the time of the second bullet and when they dragged him off the field seemed to span a year, if not more.

After that, it was hazy, a drifting in and out. He’d been so sure he’d die. He’d die with the some of his men — so much pain could only lead to that. The infection ran free in his body, caused heat to radiate. The fevers and spasms that followed in the days afterwards could only have lead to death. There was no other way.

Slowly however, the pain had changed, morphed into something else, something almost foreign. At first, he’d had nothing but the engulfing pain of the bullet making its way into his leg, the hot and sticky blood. The pain of being dragged on his field as gentle as they could account for while still under attack.

Later, it had morphed into the pain of the infection. The hot swelling that seemed almost like someone had poured hot boiling water in his veins, the swelling of his leg. The headache that came with his fevers and convulsions.

Now, that pain had morphed. It was the pain of healing, more throbbing and complaining. A pain John was all the more aware of yet shouldn’t. It was the pain of being stuck in bed and unable to move, to see his daughter so worried, to hear her soft prayers when she thought he was asleep.

Also, however, the pain of knowing. Knowing his men got slaughtered on the field and he, for some reason, didn’t perish with them. Knowing the men that passed had come close to their freedom, that _he_ had promised them their release once their army duty was over.  The pain of knowing he would write letters to the widowed women and fatherless children. Some of those children, he’d now orphaned. _It had been his call._ He _chose to go in instead of waiting, they were just following orders._

The thoughts kept haunting him, in moments of clarity, when the pain didn’t fog up his brain. John hated every moment of it.

Perhaps, it was the tenderness people treated him with that got on is bad side most. He didn’t deserve their tenderness, yet depended on it to function. It was endlessly frustrating and upsetting — John wasn’t sure which of the two was more prominent.

 

Even now, John was still surprised that no matter how brisk Alexander was when changing his bandages, how quickly he did it - he could return to such kindness afterwards. He smoothed down the bandage before shifting back on the bed, the old ones in the bucket next to it. His sister would come pick them up, boil them in hot water, leave them to dry and they’d be reused. The cycle that seemed to know no end these days. At least they weren’t soaked in blood anymore, at least the worst that clung to them was the puss that came with the end of the infection — equally gross but better, somehow.

“They’re healing,” Alexander said, busying himself with getting the bucket out of the way. He sat back down, closer this time. John was not sure if it was relief he heard in his voice or not. “At least the infection is gone. How are you doing?”

“Alright.” _Alright_. Perhaps not alright, not good, but close enough to it. It was marginally better than just a few days before. “Better.” It was a better word for it. “Less clouded up.”

“I’m glad.” Alexander took his hand in his, let his fingers check for the pulse. John didn't deserve the gentle press of his fingers, the tenderness he showed, but oh god, how he’d craved it. “Your pulse is steadier. _Stronger._ ”

Maybe, if he’d pushed through with what he had wanted, he’d be able to tell how good of a sign that truly was. “I want to try to stand.” What he wanted was to walk, bear his full weight on his leg again, but he knew it was not ready for that yet.  The feeling in his leg had improved over the past few days. Trying to wiggle his toes no longer hurt as if they’d lit them on fire, his knee was not trying to kill him anymore. It felt _better_.

All he did was use the word, but it was true. “Will you help me up?” He had not studied Medicine, but he _had_ studied law. From that, he’d learned that sometimes, it can be healthy to test the limits.

 “John—“

“I said _try_.” He didn’t say run to the church to be with his family, he didn’t say walk around. “Just standing. You can support me, if you.” _If you want to, if it would make you feel better._ He swallowed his words.

“Alright.” Alexander clearly wasn’t on board with his plan, but indulged anyway and helped him swing his legs to the side.

John wished he could say he didn’t cling to Alexander’s sleeve like a toddler to get up, fingers twisted so tightly he was afraid it wouldn’t hold.

He wished he could say his knees didn’t buckle slightly as he pulled himself up.  That he imagined the pain. That the dark spots did not dance across his vision.

“We tried. Now sit down.” He should protest. John really should, but Alexander was right. Sitting down was the best option, for now.

Yet, he’d stood. All for five seconds, but it was a start. They could try again in a few hours and perhaps, it would slowly start to get longer, as his muscles were used to being used again.

In the time he was preoccupied, Alex had sat down next to him, leaning against the headboard, yet somehow so much more slouched than the previous time. That time now years ago, when Martha had still been alive and the truth hadn’t been such a burden. When he too had been sick and delirious and glad to have Alexander there to read to him.

“Your brother told me,” he started, only to shake his head and restart again. “I’m sorry.” _Alexander was lost for words, for how to say things._ “My mouth doesn’t seem to run as quickly when Eliza’s not there to help me formulate them. Your brother is worried about you.” Harry always was. “About the way you went down, the first words you spoke.”

“He asked you to talk to me, didn’t he?”

“Not with so many words – he wanted me to keep an eye out. This is me saying I _am_ keeping an eye out for you.” John had gone too far in sharing with Alexander before, he knew that now. “Your emotions and how you feel are to your own and if you don’t wish to share them, I respect that, but there are other lives to think about, people who want to keep you here. Who would not want to lose you.”

 _He was talking about himself._ Maybe, about Fanny. “I know.”

“War does things to a man no one can think of. Talk to Eliza if you don’t believe me, but I’ve been there John. I’ve had the nightmares, the feverish dreams. I’ve woken up with blood sticking to my skin only to realize that it isn’t.” Alexander’s hand found his, squeezed it lightly. “You are not alone. Will not ever be. Please, don’t give us reason to worry for you so much.”

“I’m sorry.” He didn’t know what he was supposed to be sorry for anymore, but he knew it was a lot.

“Don’t.” Alexander’s hands hadn’t gotten softer over the weeks he hasn’t seen duty. They felt calloused and rough against his skin as he turned his face and captured his lips. It had been over a year since anyone kissed him like that. _God, he’d missed it._ Alexander was soft and that little bit of baby hair at the base of his neck still refused to be tied up with the rest. "Don't be sorry." The ords were whispered against his lips.

He sat back, leaned against his shoulder and eventually- though he had not wanted to, John fell asleep against his shoulder. There were many things he’d craved and missed in the time spend away, but perhaps this was what he’d missed most ever since Martha’s passing.

A quiet heartbeat in the storm of thoughts; someone to anchor to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry about the long wait on this chapter! ;; Exams are starting [I'm doing a second round of edits on 01/06 and have my first exam on the third so in two days] and I'm afraid they are where my attention is going to have to be for now! I'll do my best to get something up for you _within_ the month, but I'm afraid there can't be any guarantees. 
> 
> Many thanks however to everyone reading this. ♥ Thank you for still sticking with me!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! ♥ I hope you enjoyed this fic so far. 
> 
> There's a header for the fic over at [tumblr](http://mriareynolds.tumblr.com/post/140466745855/h-e-a-l-a-l-l-w-o-u-n-d-s) and a masterpost over at [livejournal](http://youaregonecas.livejournal.com/14933.html), should you want to check them out over there. c:  
> I recently made a seperate tumblr for my history related posts [ramseylaurens](http://ramseylaurens.tumblr.com) should anyone be interested in having more history related posts on their dash. 
> 
> A small disclaimer that I feel I should put in is the following, however;  
>  _I'm basing this fic off a limited knowledge of the Revolutionary War and eighteenth and nineteenth century. All information that I do use is either from the musical itself (mainly character descriptions, basic plot lines that are backed up by the historic sources I've found), a growing basis of research or the biography written by Ron Chernow (which I am now working my way through in between university work) that Lin-Manuel Miranda references.  
>  I'm doing my best to get this fic as accurate as possible. If something is written that is not right, please feel free to tell me and I will do my best to right my wrongs. c:_


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